


Repairs

by padawanhilary, Telesilla



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Beating, Caning, Dark, Dom/sub, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Rough Sex, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-19
Updated: 2003-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padawanhilary/pseuds/padawanhilary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telesilla/pseuds/Telesilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disastrous affair with Jason Isaacs, Orlando turns to Tom for comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overtures

Tom shows up at Orlando's door with two six packs of Bass and a big old fake grin. Orlando Bloom is no wilting flower, but Tom's seen him wilting. Steadily. For days, now. He knocks, then steps back, fussing with his hair and checking the beer to make sure it's still cold.

Orlando stumbles to the door after having pulled on a pair of lightweight exercise pants and a tee shirt. Hiding bruises has becoming second nature by now and he knows that he needs to hide them from whoever's at the door. Both Jason and Ewan are on night shoot tonight, along with Josh and pretty much everyone else. Or not everyone else, he realizes seeing Tom when he opens his door. "Oh hey," he says. "Beer! Cool!" He backs out of the way and gestures Tom inside.

Well that's been as animated as Tom's seen Orlando for most of the shoot. "Beer, yes," he agrees anyway, grinning loftily and holding up one six pack. "Just thinking you might could use some."

Orlando grins, while wondering why in hell Tom picked this evening to show up. He's exhausted; Jason called him over this morning and then this afternoon before the shoot began, Ewan came by. Nervously rubbing his throat, he looks around. "Kind of a mess," he says with a laugh. "Sorry." It's an effort to chatter and he wonders if maybe he can steer Tom to sex so he doesn't have to pretend to be happy-go-lucky Orli.

Tom looks at Orlando critically but says nothing. He gives a grin and makes a huffing noise, as if to say, _You oughta see my place._ He hands off one of the six-packs and plops down into a chair, right on the laundry sitting in it.

"Hope that beer's alright. You've been kinda... well, you know. Like you could use a beer, lately." Tom grins and pops one of his open and drinks, making a happy little noise into the bottle as he does.

_Shit,_ Orli thinks. He flashes a glib grin in Tom's direction. "Boredom and heat make for a dull Orli." He opens the beer and takes a long drink. "Oh yeah that's the stuff. 's good mate."

Tom wonders, but he just grins. Orlando's looking decidedly peaked lately, that's for sure, and he's hiding something--and it sure as fuck ain't about the heat.

"All that cattin' around you been doing," Tom teases.

Orlando grins. "Yeah but c'mon, mate, they're hot guys."

Rolling his eyes, Tom has to concede the point. "Yeah, aren't they just. This is the prettiest filthy war flick ever made." He leans back against what feels like a pair of balled-up trousers and squirms a little.

"So what're you doing now, waiting for pick-ups?" Tom leers, sipping from his beer again.

"Yeah, and just ... well you know. I mean Jason's still here and...." Orli lets his voice trail off suggestively, trying not to think about what happens when the shoot is over. He's getting good at that, at keeping his hopes for the future tightly under wraps.

_I've been good,_ he thinks. _Jason'll want me back in London; he will._

Tom hasn't had much chance to do anything crucial, here; he mostly watches. Watches, and fucks whatever comes along. He isn't altogether sure Orlando's coming along right now. Something's up, but he's not getting anywhere. And maybe he's read wrong, anyway. A glance here or there--or a glare, really--doesn't say anything's gone bad. He thinks there are more pieces than that, but... fuck it.

"So things're rolling along, there, yeah?" he asks casually. "With Jason, I mean. Well, I know we've all quarreled, it's so fucking hot here no one can help it, really..." He shrugs and drinks again. Now he's not bothering to couch his assessing look. He's starting to think an anvil with a big tag that says "Jason" on it could fall on Orlando's head, and Orli--and certainly Jason--would never mind.

"It's brilliant," Orli says, drinking his beer. "He's ... well brilliant." He tries not to rub his neck or squirm against the belt marks on his arse.

He catches Tom's assessing look. "What?!"

Tom tilts his head and sighs. The assessing look has gone utterly bored. "Cut the shite, Bloom. Or better yet, look me in the eye and tell me he's doing all of this 'cos you _want_ him to."

Orlando's a much better actor than people give him credit for. And of course it doesn't hurt that a least part of him believes what he's saying. "For one thing how in hell do you know what we do? And for another thing, yes as a matter of fact I want him to do everything we do."

"Alright, then," Tom says soothingly, bowing his head and raising his hand in a display of surrender. "My mistake, sorry." He takes another unconcerned pull at his beer and rises. "Didn't mean to get you pissed off." He goes to Orlando and kisses his forehead.

"Can't blame a mate for worrying, can you?" he asks quietly, looking Orlando straight in the eyes. Then he pulls back just enough, and flicks his gaze down to Orlando's throat. "Even if he's evidently worrying far... far too much." He smiles faintly.

Orli arches like a cat. "You want something, Tom?" This is easy; he's been distracting people with sex as long as he's been having sex. And now, if Orlando blows Tom or lets Tom fuck him, then maybe Tom will stop getting all weird about Jason.   
Tom's first--admittedly very prideful--instinct is to say "no," leave the beer, and walk away from Orlando and whatever fucked up little vision he's got of white picket fences and all that other bogus shite. But hell's bells, it is Orlando, after all, and everyone who is anyone will admit to having had fantasies about that perfectly filthy mouth.

"Maybe I do," Tom murmurs. Sure, he came to help, but he isn't above letting Orlando detour him into something sexual.

Orlando slides to his knees in front of Tom and reaches for the zip of Tom's pants. "How do you like it?" he asks, looking up through his eyelashes with a look he knows damn well is devastating.

_Well to **most** people that is,_ he thinks trying not to think of Jason on whom it doesn't seem to work all that well.

It _is_ a devastating look, frankly; Tom isn't quite devastated, though, much as he has to admire Orlando's amazing capacity. Two minutes ago, Orlando was well on his way to being angry, and now he's reaching into Tom's pants?

"I like it hard and fast," Tom hitches out. _Like you really want to,_ he thinks, and almost grins at the sheer ridiculousness of that. He wonders if Jason knows his playtoy whores himself out in Jason's name.

_Hard and fast, oh yeah I can work with that,_ Orlando thinks, unzipping Tom's pants and quickly getting both pants and Tom's snug boxer briefs out of the way. He glances up at Tom one more time and then lowers his mouth over Tom's cock, sucking hard as he takes it all the way into his mouth.

He immediately sets up a good hard rhythm, almost but not quite choking himself on the hard length that fills his mouth. It's good and he's good; he's always been good at this.

Christ--Orlando _is_ good at this. Tom belts out a startled moan and wraps his hands around Orli's head, cradling his skull a bit harder than strictly necessary. He pumps his hips, slowly at first, then faster, groaning raggedly. Not what he came, for, no--and who really cares.

Orlando groans around Tom's cock; enjoying the roughness. He never did before but he loves it now. Loves the feeling that he's not the one in control for all that he has a very important part of the other man in his mouth.

_Yeah,_ he thinks. _Fucking use me. It's what I'm here for._ And if there's an echo of another voice in his head, that's not something he needs to think about.

"Yeah," Tom moans, dropping his head to watch. "God, you are good. Must be a real trollop." He laughs brokenly, grits his teeth, lets out another long, explosive noise, and comes, hands tensing on Orli's head and hips going rigid as the pleasure and adrenaline shoots through him.

"Fuck," he sighs after long moments. "Shoulda brought you beer a long time ago." And he laughs, stroking Orlando's head, cupping his face with the easy affection of one newly brought off.

"And now," he grins, "Your turn."

Licking his lips, Orlando looks up a little surprised. Not everyone who likes to use his mouth cares if he gets off. And not all guys who like blowjobs are gay.

"Whatever you like," he says a little coyly.

Tom frowns good-naturedly and corrects, "No, your line is 'Ohhhh, yeah.'" He shakes his head and squirms back into his trousers, then kneels down to get into Orlando's. He grins up wickedly.

"So how do _you_ like it, mate?"

Leaning back on his hands, Orlando grins at Tom. "However I can get it." He lifts his hips helpfully, giving a little shimmy at the same time.

_It's so easy,_ he thinks. _All these guys so easily distracted by a blow job and my body._ Inevitably his thoughts go to the one man -- Ewan really doesn't count -- who isn't so easily distracted and he wonders how Tom will measure up. Then again if Tom's going to blow him there will be no basis for comparison.

Tom's gone internally critical again; _However I can get it_ has a sinister sound to it, like there ought to be morbid organ music in the background. Organ music. He snorts lightly and yanks Orli's pants out of the way.

"'However,' it is, then," Tom says, and cups a hand around the back of Orli's cock so he can lick his way up the front and around the head.

"Oh yeah...." Orlando sighs. It's nice to have someone doing to him although it makes him feel a bit guilty at the same time. Like he's being ... disloyal in some way.

Whatever's going on with Orlando, obviously he can handle it, or thinks he can; he won't be convinced of the opposite and in any case, Tom isn't going to be bothered about it. He throws himself into his task, here, licking, experimenting with his teeth, sucking around the base, finding what makes Orlando moan loudest.

The moment Tom's teeth scrape carefully along his shaft, Orlando hisses and thrusts his hips up. "Oh fuck yeah ... God ..."

Tom would smile if he could. He moans around Orlando's cock and does that again with his teeth, and then again. He smiles with his eyes up at Orlando and goes down again, dragging his teeth harder and then gnawing slickly at the head of his cock.

"Oh fuck ... oh fuck fuck fuck..." It hurts and it's good and the pain is taking over and making Orlando focus on nothing but that moment and it's _good_ so fucking good.... "Hurts," he whimpers, "hurts fucking ... good ... please ...God!"

He's squirming and wriggling and it makes the welts on his arse rub against the carpet and that's what it takes. "Nnnngh..." he grunts as he comes hard, his fingers scrabbling on the carpet.

Tom sucks it down, gripping Orlando's thighs as he does it. After a moment, he rocks back, smiling smugly.

"Well, that was mutually beneficial," he sighs, content to have come, but not really understanding the situation at large.

"Glad you think so," Orlando says. He forces himself to smile, all the while wishing that Tom would just go away now. It's late enough at night that Orli would really like to just go to sleep. Chances are good that Jason will want him at some obscenely early hour of the morning. Sometimes Jason doesn't even bother to shower before calling Orli to his room. Orlando supposes he shouldn't like that, but he does; there's something terribly urgent about being pounced by a hungry sweaty soldier. And it's always so good ... he stress into the distance not really aware of Tom.

"Right." Tom resists the urge to give some suspicious snort or narrow his eyes or something--and then stops resisting.

"Well. Now that you've made it patently obvious I've overstayed my welcome by God-forbid licking off your cock after you came in my mouth, I think I'll be going. Have a good beating or sleep or shag or whatever it is the instant I'm gone." The words sound bitter, but Tom isn't, in the least. Orlando's so far gone it's silly to hang about and belabor the point.

"Enjoy the beer, mate. Give Jason my best." _Or not._

Orlando frowns. There's no need for Tom to be cruel about it, although lately he's noticing he likes cruelty. There's no other reason for him to welcome Ewan's attentions after all. "Well if you feel that way," he says, pouting prettily. "You don't have to come back for more. "

He rises to his feet fluidly, stretching cat like as he casually pulls his pants up. He stretches again, his arms over his head, knowing that his t-shirt is riding up and exposing just a small patch of skin. He lowers his arms and moves to give Tom a quick embrace. "Don't be a wanker, OK?" He doesn't hear the bitterness in his voice as he adds. "Jason doesn't mind me doing other guys."

Arching an eyebrow, Tom hugs Orli back, unable to resist that much affection, at least. "What a lucky bloke you are, then." His tone is practically coated in icing sugar, but he pets Orlando's shoulder in a gesture that's meant to be... he doesn't know. Reassuring. Comforting. Understanding, it isn't, because Tom's never let himself get put in a position like Orli's in.

He pulls back and squeezes Orlando's shoulders, gearing up to forget about it, Neo-with-cookie like, the second he leaves.

"I think I'll pass on another go, mate," he grins a little wryly. "Thanks though."

"OK," Orlando says. "But hey. Me and Josh and Matt and Ewen -- Ewen B I mean -- are gonna play volleyball on the beach this afternoon. Wanna join us?"

"Alright," Tom shrugs. "I'll be about, yeah." He pats Orlando's arm and turns toward the door, then heads back to the chair he took over to grab the second six-pack. "I'll see you, then."

"Cool," Orlando says. He sees Tom out the door and then turns, grabbing a beer and heading into the bathroom. Some melatonin thrown down with a beer and he should sleep until he gets the call that the night shoot is over.

By the time he drifts off to sleep, Orli's last thought is to wonder if Jason would like it if he did that thing Tom did with his teeth.


	2. Coincidence

Tom is having a cappuccino in a large, wide-open outdoor cafe, studying possible prospects for upcoming crap his agent's pushing on him. Christ, what is this shite? Something space-age, and the character's name is weird. He closes the laptop impatiently and sips at his coffee--and spots Orlando Bloom, of all people, slouching in with his own cup of something.

"Hey!" He waves, grinning. "Orlando, hey!"

Orlando had run out of the organic coffee that he likes and he'd forgotten to order any. It's the only reason he's left his flat today. He'll be heading back to New Zealand soon for pick ups for Two Towers, but for now he's stuck in London with nothing to do and no one to see.

Or at least no one he wants to see. As there's really only one name on that list and that one person isn't returning his calls, it makes him a fairly lonely person.

And so he flinches a little when he hears his name called. He'd rather just walk out acting as if he hasn't seen Tom but.... Something makes him change his path and walk over to Tom' table. "Hey," he says with an attempt -- a pathetic one although he doesn't know it -- at a smile. "What're the odds, yeah?"

Tom blinks, and isn't sure he stilled his expression fast enough for his--well, _horror,_ really--not to show. _'Christ, you look like crap' is not a good thing to say here... neither is 'Bloody hell, have you given up sleep for Lent?'_

"God," Tom tries, plastering a smile to his face. "It's...good to see you, mate." He stands up and extends a hand. He's not sure why, he's almost as huggy as Orlando _used_ to be, but it's a toss-up between _Fuck, I'd break him_ and _Is he sick?_

"Um ... yeah ... good to see you too." Orlando sits because he doesn't know what else to do. _I should never have left the flat,_ he thinks. It's quiet in his flat and he can draw the curtains and listen to Trent Reznor sing "Something I Can Never Have" over and over again.

"So," he asks, picking at the cardboard cup that holds his soy latte. "How you been?"

"Been alright." Tom nods slightly, even though the niceties are driving him fucking bugshit--oh, hell.

"No, okay, you know--Jesus you look like you've been left to die chained to a post. You need a fucking meal, boy, you bring out the old mum in me. What the fuck?"

_I want to be numb,_ Orlando thinks. _I don't want to hurt and I don't want to spill my pathetic little story out for Tom of all people._

He's therefore a little shocked when he opens his mouth and blurts out. "Jason threw me out."

Now Tom's problem is that he can't manage to pretend to be the least bit surprised. He winces, but mostly it's to cover a large sense of _thank fucking God._

"'M sorry, mate," he offers, making a little _cheers_ gesture with his cup. "That's gnarly."

"I don't understand," Orlando says tiredly. "I was good. I did everything he wanted me to do. I let Ewan...." Hi voice trails off and he sips his coffee. "I was good," he whispers.

That gives Tom an unfamiliar little tug in his gut, and is, he realizes, far sadder than Orlando wants it to sound.

"Look, Orlando, some guys, you know, they won't be happy. It doesn't matter what you do, they're always gonna look for something better. I'd say 'don't take it personally' but that's bullshit. But really, you know, if it wasn't you, it'd've been someone else. And it prob'ly will be, again, real soon."

_Someone else?_ Although it's occurred to Orlando that Jason might have someone else, hearing Tom say it so casually, threatens his numb facade.

"Uh ... yeah I guess," he says, blinking.

Giving an apologetic look, Tom shakes his head. "Best to move on. Honestly, mate, he was crap. Don't think everyone didn't know it, too. We all saw it." He finishes off his cappuccino and sighs, wondering why he opened that can o'worms--now Orli'll be all over him for it.

"He is not crap!" Orli protests, energy entering his voice for the first time. It feels good for a second, but then it tears a hole the wall of numb and he bites his lip and looks away. "He's not," he repeats, quietly.

Tom says nothing. There's nothing he can say that won't piss Orlando off altogether. He calmly pulls out a cigarette and lights it, giving Orlando a very neutral, very non-pestering look. Then he offers the cig to Orli, exhaling the smoke from the first drag off to one side.

"Well, y'know, if you want, you can come over some time. Watch football or some manly unassuming thing like that." Tom shrugs.

Orli takes the cigarette eagerly. He wants nothing more than to retreat to his flat and build the numb wall back up. The melatonin stopped helping him sleep a while back and he's got some over the counter sleeping pills, although lately they don't keep the nightmares away either.

"Yeah," he says. "I suppose I could do that." He looks at Tom, wondering if what he's seeing in the other man's eyes is disgust, pity, some sort of caring or a combination of all three.

_Or maybe nothing; he could be thinking about his agent's last call. Why would he give a shite about me?_ "Yeah," he says aloud. "Uh ... what's your number; I'll ring you sometime."

Tom grabs a napkin and tugs a pen out of a pocket so he can scrawl his number down. This has all the earmarks of a brush-off, just like before. There's no interest in Orlando's eyes, although Tom'd bet his salary from the supposed upcoming baddie role that if he wanted to be a really sick fucking sadist, he could spit out a sweet little lie about Jason asking after Orlando. Bet _that'd_ put the light in his eyes.

"There you go," he says lightly, and shoves it across the table. He jams the pen back in place and pulls out another cigarette for himself. "Whenever you like."

"Yeah," Orli says, looking at the scribbled number on a coffee house napkin and thinking how sad it is that this is the nicest thing anyone's done for him since he came back to London.

With that thought, he feels the familiar lump return to his throat and he knows he has to get out of here _now_ before he breaks down and cries like some fucking girl in front of Tom.

"Look I ... ah gotta run. I told Peter I'd call and it's ... well I think it's a good time and all ... down in New Zealand, you know. So ... um it was brilliant to see you and all." He scrambles to his feet and before Tom can say something, he lets a little of his gratitude for the gesture show in his eyes.

"Thanks, mate" he says softly.

And then he bolts for the street, coffee left behind on the table in front of Tom.

"Fuck," Tom breathes, blowing out smoke. But now there's no one to bitch at, or in favor of, so he takes up the paper cups and chucks them in the bin on his way out of the little streetside court. Once again, he puts it out of his mind--with, admittedly, a bit more of a fight this time.


	3. Rescue

Orlando has had to admit defeat. He's tried everything he can; he's even tried seeing if Ewan will return his calls. And nothing. No calls from Ewan and worse, no calls from Jason.

_He meant it,_ he thinks tiredly. It's four in the morning and he can't sleep because all he hears is Jason's voice that last day. _The movie is over and done and I'm over and done with you._ And the door. He hears the door to his hotel room closing with that awful finality.

Prowling his flat like a caged tiger, he pauses in the bathroom. There on the counter is the bottle of sleeping pills. It's over half full and he wonders if there are enough in there to....

_Oh fuck what the hell am I thinking? This is not good. Not right._ He backs away and heads into the bedroom, digging through the clutter on the top of his dresser for his mobile. And then he doesn't know who to call. He's cut so many people, friends and family out of his life lately that he can't imagine that any of them will want to hear from him. And if they do listen, they won't understand.

As he shoves the phone back into the mess, a scrap of napkin flutters to the floor. It's Tom's number and Orlando grabs at it. _Tom. I can call Tom._

Without bother to wonder if Tom will want to hear from him at this hour, Orlando picks up the phone and dials the number.

It takes several rings for Tom to even think of picking up. He turns over and considers shoving the phone off onto the floor, but then he figures at--blearily, he looks at the clock--Jesus Christ. There's only one person who would call at this hour.

"Someone'd better be dead or dying, Clarise," he growls into the phone, "'cos I don't care what hairbrained idea you have now, I am _asleep._"

Orlando almost hangs up and then he looks back into the bathroom at the pill bottle. "Tom?" he says hesitantly? "It's Orli."

"Orlando?" Tom rubs at his eyes and clears his throat, trying to get the sleep out. "Jesus, it's four--are you okay?" He sits up in bed and tugs the blanket over his lap.

"I ... uh...." Orlando has no real idea of what to say and so honesty wins out. "No ... not OK at all."

Now Tom _is_ concerned, because for Orlando to admit to that... "What's wrong? Did something happen?" He thinks of Jason, and wonders if Jason _did_ something to Orli; his voice suddenly takes on an urgent tone. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm ... fuck Tom, I'm really...." _Really what, you idiot? Really heartbroken? Really unhappy? What the hell does he care?_ "Really fucked up here ... I'm scared Tom."

"Okay... okay. Hang on." Tom has to have a cigarette; he can't think. He fumbles around for it as quickly as he can and then takes a deep drag. "Okay. Tell me what's wrong. And what d'you mean 'fucked up'? Did that sonofabitch hurt you again?"

"He's not a sonofabitch!" Orlando says hotly. And then the little spurt of energy fades and Orlando sighs. "I'm just ... oh I shouldn't have called you."

"Mate, if you called me just to defend him to me at four in the morning, maybe you shouldn't've. What're you scared of?"

"Um ... there's this bottle of pills and I almost took a bunch of them."

The words slip out before Orlando can stop them and he wonders again why he called Tom. Tom'll probably just call 999 now and Orlando can't deal with that.

"Shit," Tom whispers. "Where are you? I'm coming to get you." _Fucking bastard Isaacs,_ he mutters inside his head.

"My flat,' Orlando replies. "But it's OK, I'll be fine. I shouldn't have called...."

"Stop it," Tom says tightly, sucks down the last bit of cigarette, and crushes it out. "I'm coming to get you. You don't call a bloke at four in the bleedin' morning to say 'there's a bottle of pills I thought I'd down, but I'll be okay, no worries.' Don't. Move."

He hangs up the phone and jerks into some jeans and a sweatshirt, and then heads out the door, keys in hand.

_God Orli you are a total loser. What a stupid fucking cunt. Call a guy up in the middle of the night talking like that. No wonder Jason doesn't want you..._

He's still pacing the flat nervously when the bell rings.

Tom's left the car running; he's fidgeting with his cell phone. He supposes he'll have a bit of explaining to do... he vows to address that when he comes to it. Impatiently, he knocks, even though he might not've even given Orli time to get to the door.

"Bollocks," Tom sighs, and gives Orlando one of his keen looks. "It wasn't daft. Now am I shutting off the motor and coming in, or am I dragging you back to my flat? I'm not leaving you alone."

"Uh...." Orli looks behind himself at the flat. Its' not so much that it's a mess; his personal spaces have been messy all his life. It's more that he has nothing to offer a guest except some rather old boiled brown rice and some yogurt. "I don't really have anything here," he says, feeling more and more lame by the moment.

"Well I didn't come here to eat, but anyway, come on." Tom hooks his arm through Orlando's and tugs him out, pulling the door shut behind him. "I've got alcohol at my place, and I can make chips, if you're hungry. Oh and you should see my DVDs." He realizes he's chattering on now as though Orlando hadn't mentioned possibly _killing_ himself, but he can't fathom how to handle this any other way.

_I only hope this is the **right** way,_ he thinks, and looks to Orlando for his reactions to all of this.

"We could do that ... sure," Orlando says. He feels a little lost here. While it's amazing that Tom came over, he's still not who Orlando wants and even though he knows that's wrong he can't quite figure out how to hadle it. "I don't really know what to do," he blurts out, wondering why he keeps being so honest with tom.

"I have an idea," Tom mutters, "but you won't like it." He navigates his way through the city, glad that it's so late--or early, whatever--that there isn't any traffic.

"Oh?" Orlando asks, more out of habit than any real interest.

"Let it go," Tom sighs, and looks at Orlando steadily. "He's not coming back. I mean--this _is_ about Jason, isn't it?"

Orlando looks out at the dark city. "I know," he says quietly. "It's not real yet though. And every time it gets real ... I can't handle it.

"Well, whenever it gets too real for you, I want you to call me. Alright?" Tom pulls up in front of his flat and shuts the motor off, then turns to look at Orlando again. "At least I appreciate you for your talent to consume a pint."

"'s bout all I'm good for," Orlando says morosely.

"Oh, _fuck_ you, Bloom," Tom snaps, and opens his door. "How long ago was it I saw you last? And before that, even longer. And you know what? This... this tripe you keep spouting, 'oh, if Jason doesn't love me what's the good of anything...' Fuck. You're lucky I'd rather not see you dead in hospital with a stomach pump down your throat and a tube in your dick, 'cos otherwise I'd just deposit your arse back home." He gets out of the car, snarling. "Now get your whinging arse in the flat so I can ply you with liquor."

Blinking, Orlando looks at Tom in shock even as he gets out of the car. It's strangely comforting to be told what to do, in spite of Tom's harsh words. "I'm sorry," he says as he follows Tom.

"Yeah, well why don't you just let me decide that," Tom mutters, and heads for the door. He unlocks it and pushes it open, but waits for Orlando to go in first; at this point, he isn't altogether sure Orli won't bolt. He doesn't know what makes him think that, but somehow he knows it could happen.

For some really weird reason, Orlando wants to say, "Yes Sir," but he manages to keep his mouth shut as he proceeds Tom into the flat.

"Now," Tom says easily, concealing his relief as he closes the door behind him, "I've got scotch, Bass, brandy, gin, tequila...choose your own hangover." While he's puttering around, clearing this morning's newspaper from the couch and getting glasses out of the liquor cabinet, he takes a moment to assess Orlando's state.

He looks, if possible, worse than he did last time. Tom is sure he has neither slept well nor eaten properly in a very long time, although there don't seem to be any untoward bruises on him. Well, that's why Orli's so upset, of course. There's no one to kick him around anymore. Tom sighs quietly to himself and pours himself a shot of tequila.

"Um ... a gin and tonic only light on the tonic?" Orlando asks. He almost asks for scotch simply because Jason drank it. _God I'm so pathetic._

"Right." Tom mixes the drink from the bottles in the little bar refrigerator. He hands the drink to Orlando and then sits on the couch. "Now you just have a sit. I don't care if you talk or not, but if you try to leave or go rummaging through my medicine chests, I'll be in contact with your agent and publicist so fast, you won't even have time to say 'men in white coats.'" He makes a little "cheers" gesture with the tequila and downs it, neat, and then grimaces and shudders.

"I wouldn't really...." Orlando begins, but then he pauses. He's not sure, he realizes. "I don't think I would," he admits.

"You'd better not," Tom half-growls. "You're lucky I haven't called someone to put you in hospital tonight. And then they'd find scars." Tom's just guessing on that, but it's a _reasonable_ guess, an educated one. "Wouldn't they?"

"No," Orlando mumbles. "No scars." The answer hurts in a way Tom wouldn't understand, he thinks. Neither Ewan or Jason left him with anything; even the faint burn from Ewan's cigarette faded within a couple of weeks.

Tom grits his teeth slightly; Orlando's almost palpable _disappointment_ in that little fact is grating.

"Well," he says brightly, shifting forward, standing up, and waving a hand toward Orlando's glass. "Drink up, man. I'm for getting loaded tonight, me." And then, for God only knows what reason, he adds, "I leave _good_ scars, by the way, if you want them."

_Well fuck,_ he sighs inwardly, but he heads over to the liquor cabinet again as though he hadn't just said something leading and very stupid.

"Uh...." Orlando says, feeling quite stupid. "You do?" he quickly swallows his gin and tonic relishing the harsh burn of the alcohol as it moves down his throat to his stomach.

_Whydafuck did I say that to him?_ Tom wonders, and then just presses on, "Sure I do. Knives, branding, beatings. There're lots of ways to leave marks on a body." He turns around and notes that Orlando's done with his drink, and mixes him another. He wants to say something like, _A relationship that doesn't leave scars is so fucking obviously being hidden,_ but that's a little too astute and profound, here. He doesn't want to sound like a bloody camp counselor. He just wants to be a drinking buddy.

_And maybe he'll let me fuck him,_ he adds to himself, and plasters a smile on as he turns about with their drinks again. "Anyway, this is just me chattering on. You need to just have a little break, mate. Stay here tonight, I've got an extra room. We can get up in the morning and eat pastry and watch cartoons and nurse our poor, aching heads."

Swallowing hard, Orlando wonders how Tom went from talking so casually about knives and brandings and beatings to pastries and cartoons.

"So you're into it too," he asks, taking the drink from Tom and gulping half of it down. "Like Jason and Ewan?"

"Oh, please," Tom scoffs, pulling an ugly face. "You may kiss the water Jason walks on, but for God's sake, no, I don't do anything _like_ him. Yes, I am _into it,_ isn't everyone?" He laughs quietly. "Okay, maybe not. Yes. I am into it. Very into it."

_Bastard. Like you'd ever be as good as Jason is at anything._ Orlando almost says it aloud, but he remember his manners. After all he's here in Tom's flat, drinking the man's gin at five in the morning.

"Never met anyone who was until _Black Hawk,_" he mutters trying to hide his anger and his hurt from Tom.

If Tom only knew what Orlando was thinking, that'd be the end of it all. Potential fucking or no, Tom would have his fill of it right there, and he'd already be calling Orlando a cab and shuffling him out the door.

But of course, Tom has no idea.

"Now, don't worry about that, I was only playing," he soothes, and then just gets up and grabs the gin and tonic and tequila so he can set them on the coffee table. "Hell's bells, you can't be expected to know everyone's nasty little habits, can you?" He tops off Orlando's glass with gin, starting to feel his own tequila now.

_If I get him drunk and passed out, he can't try to kill himself on my naproxen._

His glass is pretty much gin only, but Orlando doesn't notice. The burn is gone, but the numbness feels good and he leans his head back against the sofa. "Dunno what I did wrong," he mutters, not really aware that he's speaking aloud. "I let him do whatever he wanted."

"Yeah, well." Tom shrugs. "Like I said, some people aren't gonna be happy. So then you just find someone who is." He downs another shot and slouches back into the couch, sighing. "You have a lot going on, Orlando. Lots of people'd be happy to have you."

"Don't want 'lots of people,'" Orlando mumbles petulantly, drinking more gin. _I never used to be a morose drunk._ "Never used to be morose at all," he says, continuing the thought aloud.

"No, I daresay you didn't," Tom offers. "I've seen the shoots and the premiere shots. Why're you morose now?"

"Because I'm fucking miserable ya daft cunt!" Orlando snaps and it feels good. He downs the rest of his drink and turns to glare at Tom. "Because I lost the only good thing in my fucking _life!_ Bloody fucking hell mate, you'd be goddamned morose too!"

His sudden burst of energy gone he curls up in on himself, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "I loved him," he says softly as if that explains it all.

And really, for Orlando, it does.

Tom is seeing something here he can neither prove nor support, but he goes with it anyway. He's not given to a great deal of pain over what his dates think of him--and Orli falls into that category, he's decided, as "date" can mean anything from blowjob to dinner-and-movie to weekend in Santa Barbara--but he has to make a point here, to _show_ Orlando he's spinning his wheels. He doesn't know why. Probably just a case of a mate wanting to make sure his mate doesn't do anything stupid.

"Don't you think if he'd've loved you back that way, you'd be with him now?"

Blindly, Orlando holds out his glass. "Wasn't good enough," he mumbles.

"What's 'good enough' then?" Tom snaps, tired for more reasons than he cares to admit of Orlando running himself down. "We all saw how--" Tom stops himself, very close to saying, -_-careful he was, and more than a few of us caught the signs when he thought no one was looking_\-- But that's not going to help, and the more Tom digs into Jason, the more Orlando protects the arsehole.

Instead of finishing his sentence, he wonders. And then he acts on that wondering, setting the gin bottle down with a _clunk_ and pinning Orlando to the back of the couch with a hand at his throat. He chooses his words very, very carefully.

"If I hear you whining about your own self any longer, I will strap you down and beat you until you're screaming, then I'll beat you until you have no voice left. I am that tired of it." He narrows his eyes slightly and clenches his teeth for good measure.

"Wha...." Orlando stares at Tom, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "I ... uh..." It sounds both good and wrong.

Good because, well hell it's been over a month since he's been hurt that way and his body obviously wants it. He glances down at his lap. _Very obviously wants it,_ he thinks and giggles.

The giggle dies as he thinks of how wrong it would feel to get this from anyone else. Even from Ewan, as satisfying as it was, it still felt disloyal.

"Sorry," he says now, slurring the words a little. "I'll take it under ... advisement." He has to struggle to get his mouth around the word and he realizes he's quite drunk.

Tom pulls back, only slightly disappointed because he saw Orli's gaze slide down between his own legs. Tom finds himself responding, as well. It's been a while since he's done this to anyone. It's been a while since he felt the _need_ to.

"You're hard," Tom remarks. He wonders what it is that had Orlando so hot for Jason, what _still_ has him hot for Jason. He turns away, wondering if it's coldness, or the pain, or the fact that somehow it shone through that Jason never gave a shit.

"You can always ask to have something done about that," Tom says slowly, and his eyes flick to the mirror over the liquor cabinet, where he can see Orlando. He watches carefully, tilting his head a little, wondering how Orli will respond.

"'m not sure that's a good idea," Orlando begins. He looks at Tom, thoughtfully, or as thoughtfully as he can in this state. "Well maybe.... Do you want me?" Because really that's all it's ever taken with Orlando. It was all it took with the Hobbits ... and some of the Elves .. and a few of the Men. And it was all it took with Jason.

"Of course I want you." Tom sighs. "I've wanted you since just before I showed up on your doorstep." He looks at the floor and shakes his head.

Orlando is stunned. "Tonight?!" he blurts out.

"No. I've wanted you," Tom clarifies, "since just before I showed up on your doorstep with the Bass Ale that night. The night we blew each other."

"Wow, really?" Orlando is a little touched, even if people have been wanting him for as long as he's looked legal and some even before that. "Wow," he says again, looking blearily at Tom.

Tom's damn good looking, Orlando thinks. But then again he would be; given that everyone on the BHD set was good looking. The thought, however takes him back to Jason and how he wasn't as pretty as all the rest and yet.... He blinks. "wow," he says again.

Once upon a time, Tom would have leapt at the chance, without compunction, to screw a guy who's probably too flattered--and definitely too drunk--to want to stop him. But now, on a night when Orlando hasn't exactly been considering shoes and ships and sealing wax, but whether pills can kill him, Tom doesn't feel quite right about trying to fuck him. He scoots a little closer, though, and runs a hand over Orli's hair.

"You hear that all the time, I'm sure," Tom says wryly. "But it's true. And I'm really... really glad you rang up tonight."

Tom passes his hand down to the back of Orlando's neck, and he's actively having to decide, now, with Orlando right here, whether he wants to be honorable and tuck Orlando into a bed and do the chaste little forehead-kiss thing, or if he wants to sod honor and just go to. "How're you feeling?" he asks, as, he supposes, some kind of lame gauge. He slides his hand around Orlando's neck and glides it over the angled jaw to cup his thumb under it, splaying his fingers over Orli's cheek. He really, really wants to kiss Orlando, even if it means he'll be jacking off in the shower later.

"Really fucking pissed," Orli replies lazily. "You gonna fuck me?

Blinking, Tom considers his answer to--what is that? An offer? A request? "I will if you want me to," he murmurs, and then he leans in, still cupping Orlando's jaw, and kisses that sweet, perfect mouth. He presses his tongue inside, keeping it gentle, and it isn't as though he knows what's making him do this, this way. He's holding himself back, giving Orlando room. God only knows what the boy's been put through under Jason, and now to be pining for that? Tom can't even imagine.

"You can if you want to," Orlando says, going slack in Tom's arms. "All the same to me really."

It doesn't occur to him how cruel his words are. There hasn't been anyone since he left Morocco and Ewan and Jason. But if Tom ,who is nice and hot and probably a good lay wants him ... well why not, since Orli can't have what -- or who -- he really wants.

Tom almost smirks. He pulls back and releases Orlando, his gaze mild and amused.

"I suppose that's meant to elicit a certain response, then, is it?" he asks quietly. "No... I don't think I do. You're drunk. You're distraught. And I like my partners a little more... emotionally erect, you know?" He quirks an eyebrow up and stands, gesturing to the hallway. "First door down's the loo. Second door's your room. One at the end's my room. You can wake me up if you need anything." He glances around at the bottles and glasses, and then smiles at Orlando. "Or I'll just see you in the morning, Orlando."

Raising his glass to Tom, Orlando finishes the last of his drink and then tries to stand up. "I'll let you shag me any time mate," he mumbles as he almost trips over the coffee table. "But yeah ... better when the rooms not spinning ... whoa...." His arm flails as he tries to get his balance.

"I don't fuck boys who don't want it. If it's just about you 'letting' me, I'd rather not." And he's mentally kicking himself, wondering what the fuck his problem is; it wasn't too long ago he let Orlando blow him in lieu of finding out what the little tart's abusive boyfriend was up to.

_Fuck it,_ he thinks, and catches Orli's arm. He grips it and wheels Orlando around, into the spare bedroom. He grins and gives Orlando a shove, sprawling him out on the bed, and then bends down to tug off Orlando's trainers.

"You get some sleep, mate," Tom advises quietly. "Things always look better after sleep."

"s right," Orli says, going boneless on the bed. "Hey ... yer a fucking good mate ... ya know?" And then even more quietly, just before the effect of several mostly gin gin and tonics on a virtually empty stomach drags him down into sleep, he adds. "Thanks Tom."

"Welcome," Tom murmurs, but he suspects Orlando's already out. He slips out the door and closes it behind him, already undoing his trousers so he can get into them.


	4. Sleeplessness

Orlando wakes up in a strange room and has to think for a long moment before he realizes where he is. Dim morning light is struggling through the curtains and he finally realizes he's at Tom's flat.

Yeah, he called Tom because of the urge to take pills and instead he ended up here, drinking a lot of Tom's gin. In fact, he's still quite drunk and he staggers into the bathroom to piss. When he's done he hesitates in the hallway, looking from the door to the guest room to the door to Tom's bedroom. He knows the state he's in, drunk, exhausted, wide awake and terribly, terribly horny.

In the end the decision makes itself.

Leaving his clothes in a heap in the hall, Orlando pushes Tom's door open "Oi," he says, fairly quietly.

Tom's been sleeping on alert, as it were. He hears Orlando and is instantly awake. "What?" he asks in a slurred half-whisper. "What is it?"

"'s me," Orli says, crawling sinuously into bed with Tom. Encountering bare skin, he immediately nibbles on the first bit he can reach, which just happens to be Tom's bicep.

Surprise almost instantly becomes a hard-on. Tom slides a hand around the back of Orlando's head. Now, his first instinct was just to leave well enough alone a while ago, not really wanting to let Orlando cave in out of some sense of obligation. Tom didn't want to be *allowed* to fuck Orlando. But hell's bells, compassion, caring and concern aside, he'd be fucking *stupid* to turn this away.

And somehow, he thinks he has a pretty good idea of how Orlando likes it. He tugs Orlando to him, making a fist at the back of his head, gripping the short hair there. Then Tom doesn't so much kiss Orlando as just fuck his mouth, alternating sharp bites with long, sweeping, driving thrusts of tongue.

He grunts into Orlando's mouth and then shoves up, onto an elbow, then over. Immediately he's grinding his cock into the warm, soft juncture of Orli's hip and thigh, still biting Orli's mouth.

The minute Tom takes possession of his mouth, Orlando relaxes and goes passive. He's participating, eagerly parting his lips and clutching at Toms' arms as the kisses alterneate with bites, but he's more than content to let Tom lead.

When Tom rolls over on top of him, Orlando moans happily and writhes underneath him, hoping that Tom likes him acting the wanton. Orlando can be still -- Jason often demanded stillness from him -- but Tom feels good and heavy on his body and Orlando wants to squirm.

Tom gives a low, amused chuckle and raises his head to look at Orlando in the dim, gray light. "That's what I thought," he breathes. "Quite a slut, aren't you? And you like it rough." He thrusts his cock against Orlando's hip again, hard, and then bends down to bite Orlando's shoulder. "Thass good," he mutters against Orli's skin. "I like it rough, too."

"oh yeah .. 'm a real slut,' Orlando replies. This is familiar territory, although Tom sounds more admiring than cruel....

That thought goes out of his head as Tom bites him. _It'll mark up!_ But the pain is good, Tom bites hard, obviously not worried that Orlando is some fragile little boy and Orli relaxes into the pain, thrusting his hips up against Tom hard.

Suddenly Tom has a hundred images coming at him, but one of them is just... so random and so good he has to share it. "Ever been fucked with the handle of a knife?" he groans out, then leans down to bite Orlando's throat.

"God no," Orlando moans. "Fuck but that ... sounds fucking ... hot." Then Tom is biting yet again and Orlando can't really form words any more.

"Ever been cut?" Tom persists, grinding down again. "Burned? Fucked dry? Sucked until you came, and then came again? Ever screamed for it to stop?" Every idea is punctuated with a hard nip of teeth, and then Tom is grabbing the lube, slicking some over his cock carelessly and kneeling up.

"Roll over," he pants. God, God, *God* but he wants... "I bet you have a marvelous screaming voice," Tom mutters.

"Screamed .. yeah ... for it to stop ... yeah," Orli manages to reply, although it's hard work between the alcohol still in his system, the ideas Tom is putting in his head and the feeling of Tom's teeth marking --- _marking!_ \-- him.

He rolls over eagerly when told to, spreading his legs and grinding his cock down against the mattress.

"Oh, yeah," Tom breathes. He spreads Orli roughly; there's no finesse here, and it isn't because Tom can't manage it, it's because Tom knows neither of them need it. Orlando didn't come into his bed and bite him on the arm so Tom could make slow, sweet love to him.

Pushing Orlando's thighs apart with his knees, Tom leans down over him and, one hand holding his cock and the other hand holding Orli open, times a long, hard thrust home with a particularly harsh bite to the back of Orlando's shoulder. He growls against the skin there, but it turns throaty and inarticulate. Christ, but Orlando's hot, and the squirming is driving Tom mad.

"Oh _fuck_," Orlando yells as Tom shoves into him. "God yes...." He bucks his hips up, wanting more of that hard burn. "Hurt me ... fuck me harder...."

The angle isn't right. Not for what they're wanting. Tom is suddenly glad for the longevity of drunkenness; he pulls out of Orlando altogether and yanks at his hips. "Up. Knees. Grab the headboard." He needs leverage. He wants to feel Orlando shoving onto him.

"Yes Sir," Orlando replies, instantly scrambling into position, spreading his legs widely once he's there. This is all so perfectly familiar and it's so good to have someone give him orders again.

That address goes straight to Tom's gut like a sucker punch. He grits his teeth and starts to wonder what--

_No,_ he tells himself, and slams into Orlando _hard,_ gripping those slim hips, cutting into them with his nails. He doesn't care how they got here, or what Orlando's thinking of. He cares about the fact that his cock is buried in Orlando, and then buried again, and again, and faster, until he's sure Orlando is going to hurt from it for days.

"Hurt," he orders Orlando through clenched teeth. "Fucking hurt." It's unnecessary, but "Sir" wasn't something Tom was ready to hear, and he knows it wasn't something Orlando was ready to give, and that makes him a little angry. He realizes he's fucking Orlando with a rough carelessness that is causing the lube to dry up and the strokes to become harsher. He doesn't care.

It _does_ hurt and Orlando needs .. wants ... has to have that hurt.

"Hurts," he whimpers as his hips slam back against the relentless pounding. "Hurts so ... fucking much ... need it ... please ... please ... hurt me .... please Sir...."

Tom lets out something like a roar, and bites Orlando hard enough to draw blood, right at the nape of his neck, right there where it *looks* like a mark, it *looks* like he got fucked and bitten. No girl leaves marks like that, no sweet tryst requires salve and bandages. That's going to, and it makes Tom laugh jaggedly.

*If Orlando wants to play, we'll play,* he thinks.

"Mine," he groans. "Aren't you." He bites Orlando again, slams home, holds still.

Orlando is there, in that place where he's ready to beg, humiliate himself, be as still or as wild as he's told to be, whatever it takes to get more of that wonderful pain.

And then it's like having ice water thrown on him. The voice asking the question is the wrong one, not a harsh voice with the Liverpool accent coming through as it does during sex. And he can't answer it.

"Please," he whimpers. "Please?"

"That's what I thought," Tom grits out, but he's too far gone to stop now, no matter that he is fully pissed off enough to leave Orlando to pull off on his own. He begins to move again, but this time it's with selfish urgency. He doesn't care if Orlando's getting anything out of it, or if Orlando's getting hurt.

"Bring yourself off," he bites out, scratching at Orlando's hips, and then grabbing one shoulder and using it for more driving force.

"Yes Sir," Orlando gasps, reaching down to roughly stroke his cock. "Thank you ... Sir," he adds, just before the orgasm hits him hard. He clings to the headboard hard in order not to collapse afterwards, and he's gasping for breath.

Tom shoves in one last time and comes, and all of his roaring and growling ends in a breathless huff. He holds steady for a moment, buried in Orlando, letting the last of his energy leave him. Then, hissing, he pulls out and gets off the bed.

"Don't fucking call me 'Sir,'" he mutters, and pads to the loo.

"Sorry. Orlando mutters, as he collapses on the bed. He feels empty and wrung out now and he wants to fall asleep. It was good, really fucking good but now that's it's over it's ending like it always did with Ewan and Jason.

Tom's walking away. And really, Orli can't blame him.

Tom cleans off, has a piss, splashes water onto his face. *Fuck,* he sighs inwardly. *That didn't go well.* But he really isn't one to cling to unnecessary shite, especially shite pertaining to bed. And it was, all told, pretty good.

He shuffles back out again, swaying and grinning as he clutches onto the nightstand for balance. Then he climbs into bed, grimacing as he finds the puddle of come with one hand. "Ugh," he laughs quietly, and grabs something off the floor to scrub at the spot. Then he discards the laundry and lies down next to Orlando, slinging one leg over Orlando's arse and an arm across his shoulders.

"Hurt you?" he asks tiredly. He knows he did, but it's always polite to ask.

"Yeah," Orlando says tiredly. He's ready to sleep now, the endorphins from the sex are fading and sleep might actually be possible. "Felt good ... the hurt did," he adds, feeling a little surprised that Tom wants to be this close.

_Some guys cuddle. Lij did, and Billy,_ he thinks tiredly.

"Just don' want you putting a whole thing on this," Tom murmurs, a little cryptically. "Me fucking you. 'M not a 'sir.'" _*Especially if you're thinking of that bastard when you say it._

"No you're not," Orlando agrees listlessly. He really wants to sleep now. Because being reminded that Tom is not a "sir" is taking his mind down paths it travels all the time now and he'd really rather forget it for a little while. "And I know it's not a thing."

"'Kay." Tom scoots a little closer until he's plastered along Orlando's side and takes a long, slow breath. "Coffee in about five hours," he promises, and goes back to sleep.


	5. Waking

"Nnnnnghhh." Orlando rolls over, and then moans again. He doesn't feel all that good, which is weird, given that he rarely has hangovers. Of course the fact that he hasn't slept well in days, hasn't had any kind of real food, and is suffering what some might call an emotional melt down is beside the point.

He stretches, not really awake yet and enjoying the burn from last night's rough sex and the myriad pains of the bites left all over him by ... Tom.

"Oh fuck," he mutters, looking around. _I let him fuck me. I let him hurt me. I fucking called him Sir. Fucking hell._

Tom's chipper, something he normally can only achieve after he's had his coffee, but he's still replaying the sex in his head, and then as he's about to add cream to Orlando's coffee, he remembers something about Orlando being a veggie.

"Black, then, with sugar," he says out loud, and drops two cubes into the cup, stirring them in. He takes this and a plain bagel wrapped in a napkin into the bedroom.

"Okay, now this bagel doesn't have anything on it, but you've just got to--" Tom frowns. "What's the matter?"

"Don't feel too good," Orlando mumbles. It's true both physically and emotionally, and he turns away from Tom, curling up in a ball.

"Oh..." Tom says sympathetically. "Yeah, the gin... but y'know, if you get something down, I bet you'll feel alright. It's just a plain bagel, there's nothing on it. And I've got you a coffee. Sugar, no animal products." In Tom's world, anything that can't be repaired by sleep or fucking can be remedied by food or coffee.

Orlando really doesn't care about the food, but the coffee smells good and Tom taking care of him is nice too. It's been a long time since a lover took care of him ... since the Hobbits really.

_Of course that was different,_ he tells himself guiltily. _The BHD set was different with all those military guys around. They couldn't see us being close. Would have freaked everyone out._

"Uh thanks," he says now, taking the bagel and coffee.

"No worries, mate," Tom says, smiling faintly. "If you want, I can leave you be. I haven't got anywhere to be today, but if I have to run out for a bite, you're welcome to stay." He's already backing toward the door. Orli's looking a little green, frankly, and Tom only wishes he could convince himself it's only 'cos he's hung over.

"uh ... last night...." Orli begins. "I ... well thank you. It's been a while since ... well anyone hurt me."

"You're--welcome," Tom says quietly, and blinks. "I didn't--y'know. At the end there, I figure I didn't handle that so great, but... you know." He hopes Orlando does, anyway; he's shite at this kind of thing.

"I'm really sorry I called you Sir," Orlando says, frowning a little and looking away. _God I'm pathetic. He doesn't want me like that and he's not Jason...._ For a minute, Orlando thinks that maybe it's a good thing Tom's not Jason and then he feels miserable and guilty for the thought.

"S'alright, mate." Tom raises a hand and shakes his head. "Just..." _Careful. Careful._ "Just don't want to dredge up anything, you know. Painful."

Ducking his head, Orlando puts a hand to the back of his neck and then moans a little as it encounters the place where Tom bit him so savagely the night before. "You marked me...." he breathes, his tone of voice making it obvious that he's not complaining.

Tom laughs quietly, almost embarrassed. "I did, didn't I." He tips his head down and then looks at Orli again. "It was good. I really liked it--"

He cuts himself off sharply. There's no good way to say _Except for that whole 'Sir' business, that'll never do..._

"I get it," Orlando says matter of factly. For all his snuggling up last night, the real facts are painfully obvious. "Just let me get my clothes and I'll be out of here.

Tom frowns, startled. "You--what? What? You get what? Why--Orlando, I don't want you to _leave_, I really did like it. And we're clear on the slip-up, right? I mean we agree on that, right? So--Jesus, don't _leave_, I didn't mean that at all."

"Oh," Orlando says a little lost again. It's odd but he's realizing that while in Morocco he sort of forgot how normal people do things. "I just assumed because...." He lets his voice trail off because he knows Tom doesn't want to hear Jason's name.

Nodding, shoving his hands into his pockets and tipping his head down again, Tom murmurs, "Yeah, I know. But, you know, I meant it. Hang out, if you want. I'm gonna stick a DVD in, do a little sitting on my arse. Not all of us are big stars like you, with important places to be." He grins up at Tom again and winks.

"I don't have any place to be right now," Orli says tiredly. "Haven't been doing much really." He sips his coffee and suddenly realizes he's hungry. "I'd love to watch something," he mumbles around a huge bite of bagel. "Used to watch stuff all the time with the Hobbits."

Tom smiles. That sounds like something, yes. "Okay then. I've got some really disgusting horror flicks, y'know. Or whatever. And we can do something proper for breakfast, if you want. There's a place'll be opening up in about a half an hour, serves great pizza." He grins a little wider, thinking maybe this'll be the first truly normal moment they've ever had.

"You got the Evil Dead movies? 'Cause those are fucking funny, you know?" Orlando finishes the first half of the bagel and climbs out of bed. "Ugh ... I think I need a shower."

"Yeah!" Tom bounces a little. "Yeah, I've got those. Alright, you get a shower, I'll go drum up some Cokes or something, and I'll see you in he living room." He grins again, then ducks out of the room.

It's only when he's stepping out of the shower and looking in the mirror while he dries off that it hits Orlando. _I let someone else hurt me,_ he thinks again, staring at the marks left by Tom's teeth. _And he fucked me and I called him Sir and...._

He backs up and sits down a little abruptly on the toilet, burying his head in his hands. A small, sane voice in the back of his head tells him he's moving on the way you're supposed to move on after a break up.

"But I don't _want_ to move on," he says, feeling the familiar lump form in his throat.

Tom's pulled out all the stops, here; he's got popcorn and cold Cokes and the movies all lined up, thinking they might just pull a marathon and watch them all back to back. But more and more time is going by, and he's starting to wonder if Orlando drowned in that shower. He heads back to the master bath and knocks quietly.

"Hey, Orlando. You alright in there?"

"Shite," Orlando mumbles. "Sorry," he says opening the door. He knows his eyes are a little damp, but he's done now and he needs to pretend it didn't happen.

Still, he doesn't try to meet Tom's eyes. "Just .. was thinking about stuff," he says.

"Yeah," Tom mutters, fidgeting a little. "Movies are lined up, if you want." He rolls his eyes at himself; he isn't sure he _wants_ to try to sit around with Orlando if he's gonna be on about Jason again, but what's to be done about it now? "And cold Cokes," he adds, just to have something more to say.

"Sure," Orlando says, actually appreciating the way Tom is dodging the issue. _Lij or Sean A would have been all over me to talk it through and all that American psychobabble shite._

"A cold Coke sounds good," he adds, trying to smile.

"Orlando..." Tom begins, heading down the hall slowly, "y'know, you really--Jesus. What the fuck kind of hold does he _have_ on you?"

He raises his hands apologetically, shaking his head. The question is really only a curious one, but Orlando just might resent even that by now. "It's not good for you, is all," he adds. "Messes up your yin-yang or some shite." He, too, tries to grin, and probably fails.

"I love him," Orlando says hotly. "Is that enough of a hold? I wanted to really be his boy. His voice goes very quiet. "I thought I was."

Tom grits his teeth. "Well you're _not,_ and't seems fairly obvious he's not going to come rushing to your side now. Whatever bloody pedestal you've got him on, don't you think if he _wanted_ to be on it, he'd be here now?"

Giving a frustrated noise, Tom turns down the hallway. "I'm watching some goddamned gore, now, and all I've got to say about this whole fucking mess is no decent _Sir_ treats his _boy_ like that."

"If I'd been a decent boy," Orlando finally says after a very long pause. He's more speaking to himself than Tom. "If I'd been good enough..."

"Ai, fuck," Tom sighs, and keeps going. "Don't let's get started on that again." He wants to argue that he's firmly of the opinion, just based on how Orlando treats _himself_, that Jason knew fuck-all about what he was doing, but he wisely keeps that to himself.

"Movies!" he barks instead. "Three of them! Hands reaching out of the ground, oh, God, save me!" He makes gurgling, retching noises and sinks to his knees and then flopping to the floor, faking a horrible, disgusting death. Then he props up on one elbow and looks at Orlando with a bright, questioning expression. "Okay?"

Confused, Orlando nods. "OK." He's a little hurt that Tom is just brushing off his pain and then wants to sigh at his own inconsistency. A few minutes ago he's glad that Tom wasn't asking him all sorts of questions.

_God I'm such a mess. And I'm fucking tired of that._

Maybe watching Bruce Campbell fight off armies of dead people is the way to at least put things off. And maybe Tom will let Orli blow him.

"Okay," Tom repeats, and gets up. He sees the look on Orlando's face and sighs to himself. "Bloody hell," he whispers, and slings an arm around Orlando's neck. "Look, it's just... We have... uh. Differing opinions of Mr. Isaacs' character, yeah? I don't want to fight about that. And I don't know how to make you feel better. But if you think of something that'll help, you'll tell me? 'Cos... no more nights thinking about pill bottles, yeah?"

"I'd rather learn how not to think at all," Orlando says, shocked into a moment of utter honesty.

Tom shakes his head, sighing. "Wish I could do that for you, mate, I do. Course, then you couldn't think about good things, like fucking and pizza--ohhhh, hey. I've got about a half ounce of pot set away, want to get into that? That'll take the edge off, always gets me to giggling."

"Oh yeah, that'd be great," Orlando says. "Pot is good for not thinking. And so are Evil Dead movies."

_Maybe,_ he thinks as he follows Tom down the hall, _I can spend the rest of my life smoking pot and watching bad horror flicks._


	6. Stoned

They're good and high, now.

Tom is tittering at something on screen, trying really hard to hold the smoke, and losing most of it through his nose. Ash's hand is grabbing at his face after having been severed, and Tom is quite sure he's never found it that funny. Of course, it's in the middle of the day, and they've got pizza delivered (now _that_ was an amusing phone call) and there's something just decadent about all of it.

He's drawn the curtains closed and brought out a six-pack of beer, and they're half-leaning on each other, alternating between giggling at the movie and solving the mysteries of the world, if only someone were here to record it all.

"So see," Orlando says, trying desperately to make Tom see this important fact. "He's like a cat see ... cause he's got ... no really this makes sense ... pointed ears, see. And so do cats."

He reaches for the joint Tom is about to drop onto the floor and takes a long expert drag. "So see ... cat like ... because of the ears ... yeah?"

"No," Tom nods, giggling again. "Cause man, cats don't have bows. And they can't ride horses. Oh wait, wait, I get it. Puss-in-Boots. Right?" The picture becomes clear in his head, and he's laughing harder at the image of a green-clad Legolas cat, riding a horse into battle.

"Give that back, now," Tom protests, after Orlando's had a couple of puffs. "I'm still parsing this out." He snatches the joint away and drags off of it, then holds it less than patiently, gesturing with his hands as he makes several comments in his head.

"How does a cat fuck, d'you think? Have you ever seen one? I've heard them, they make an awful noise, and I think it's got to either be awfully good or just misery, misery. You know?"

"Barbed pricks," Orlando says as if it explains it all, which it does to him. " He grabs a beer and takes a long swallow. "Gotta fucking hurt."

Tom giggles again, shaking his head. "Barbed pricks? You've made that up. That sounds too much like you'd want, you had to have made that up."

"Fucking did not," Orlando insists. "Read it somewhere ... dunno how it works.' He reaches for the joint. "And fuck you anyway mate. I may like pain but ... then again ... c'mon give over," he demands, taking a drag when he finally gets the joint from Tom. "How sharp are the barbs I wonder. 'cause if they're like those studded for her enjoyment johnnies ... might be good."

"Meh, I never found those to be such a fuckin boon, but whatever." Tom grins at Orlando suddenly, forgetting all about the joint and the movie. "Wanna fuck me?"

"Huh? 'm not a top," Orli replies, blinking in confusion. The last person he fucked was Liv ... or was it Mirry? He can't really remember, but it was a girl.

Tom waves a hand lazily and gets up to wander into the bathroom, then the bedroom, cursing momentarily at the missing lube before he finds it.

When he wanders back in again, he thinks about shutting off the TV, then ends up leaving it running. Matter-of-factly, he opens Orli's pants, then drops his own altogether and moves over Orli to straddle his thighs.

"I like this sometimes," Tom murmurs, and he's only now starting to slur. He manages to get some lube on his hand and slick it over Orli, and then he scoots close and sinks down over Orlando's cock, groaning at the coldness of the lube and the burn in the muscle. It's been a long time, and he knows he's tight--he realizes that with a strange bit of pride.

Orlando's been hard since Tom said "wanna fuck me," and even the cold of the lube doesn't have any effect on his erection. "Fuck," he moans. "You're so fucking tight ... almost hurts ... fucking good ... better'n Liv...."

Because, he remembers out of nowhere, that it was Liv last time. Him on his back and Liv riding him like this, only she was a girl and not anywhere as tight as Tom, although she was good and smelled nice.

He snakes a hand around Tom's neck and pulls him in close, nuzzling his neck. Tom smells like beer and pot and pizza, and it's really hot actually. Tom smells like a guy and Orli is fucking him. "Smell good," he says, thrusting up. "Like a bloke...."

Tom's smoked-out brain hangs on "Better'n Liv," and then "Like a bloke..." and he's giggling again.

"Thanks," he gasps out, and starts fucking himself on Orlando. "Ah--" he succumbs to another fit of laughter. "Feels good. I'm a bloke, yeah."

It's funny really and Orlando really needs to share the thought with Tom. "See you'd make .. fuck yeah ... a funny fucking girl ... with this and all...." To illustrate his point, he grabs at Tom's cock enthusiastically. "But see ... if you were a girl ... shite that's fucking good ... it'd be wrong ... smelling like a bloke ... God Tom!"

He's laughing still, but it's really more like a breathless sobbing because it's really good and hot and just so fucking good.

That _click_ happens when, in a stoned mind, the world makes sense, and Orlando's nonsense is perfectly valid. But Tom's quickly lost in the feel of Orli's cock in him, and then he blurts out breathlessly, "Girls don't have cocks." He closes his hand around Orli's hand, stroking it up and down, making Orlando toss him off.

"Yeah," Orlando murmurs, the laughter fading at the pressure of Tom's hand on his. "Show me how ... you like it ... please..."

Tom grunts inarticulately and tightens his hand over Orlando's, showing him the way he likes his head stroked, the ridge, his balls. In this state, it comes on him fast, and soon he's spurting all over Orlando's hand, gasping.

"Please ... oh god please let me ... need to come Sir," Orlando cries out. He's so close and somewhere in the dim recesses of his stoned, drunk, confused mind he knows he's done something wrong but he can't remember and anyway he really, really wants to come.

Nodding, too far gone to care, Tom rasps out, "Yes, come" and throws himself down onto Orlando harder. He wants Orli to like this, to want it. That may be the only way he can reach Orlando at all.

Orlando throws his head back, yelling with abandon as he comes. It's fuzzy edged but good and he goes boneless afterwards, sinking back into the couch with his arms spread out.

After a moment he looks at the hand he pulled Tom off with and raises it to his mouth, licking it with a great show of tongue. "Just like a cat," he says.

Tom is too amused and too blown out by the whole thing to argue. "Like a cat," he agrees breathlessly, grinning at Orlando and then lying over him in a sweaty mass. He tucks his face into Orli's neck and licks at it slowly, just to taste him.

"Brilliant," he sighs. "Haven't had one like that in a long time."

"Really?" Orli asks. He's still well and truly stoned and his smile is a little goofy. "Haven't been allowed to fuck a guy in a while. Missed it a bit."

"Hey, hey," Tom snorts, giving a frown of grossly exaggerated mock disapproval. "You didn't fuck me. I fucked _myself_ on you. Le'ss get it right." He giggles against Orlando's neck.

For some reason Orli likes that idea. "Mmm ... you just used me like a big ol sex toy." He giggles along with Tom. "Like that idea."

"Alright," Tom says abruptly. "Can't stay like this all night, already gonna be sore in the morning." Tom levers himself up and off Orlando, hissing, and then flings himself to one side, only to practically wrap himself around Orli again from the side.

"You can be my sex toy. I need a good one." He looks at Orli blearily. "'F I feed you pizza and beer and pot, will you hang around and be my sex toy?"

"Sounds like a sweet deal," Orli says lazily. Not that he believes that Tom wants him like that really, although the other man's propensity for cuddling is almost unnerving. And anyway ... he suddenly realizes something very important. "Gotta check my messages," he blurts out. "Jason might've called...." His voice trails off as he realizes that the dope and the beer may have led him into a mistake.

The dope and the beer have led Tom into forgetting that Orlando's the most sickeningly hung-up ex in just about ever. Impatiently he shoves off of Orlando and starts righting his clothes.

"Bloody hell, Bloom, if that doesn't beat the bank. Here I am trying to fucking distract you. Don't see now why you aren't intercepting his goddamned mail and tapping his fuckin phone line. Or just show up on his bloody doorstep, why don't you? Might be easier, save you some trouble. He can kick your ass all at once instead of doing it for the next year and a half via yourself."

Disgusted, Tom gets up, sways a bit, and then goes to get himself another beer.

_A pity fuck. That's all it was._ Fuck you, Hardy," Orli suddenly snarls. "I don't need your goddamned pity." He lurches to his feet, zipping up his jeans carelessly. "I thought you wanted _me_, but you just want to be all sodding noble!"

He gropes around for his shirt before remembering that he never put it on, and so it's presumably in the hall where he dropped it last night. "I'll fucking call a bloody cab."

Tom is immediately back in the room, right in Orlando's face. He all but sits on Orlando, shoving him down into the couch, planting both hands hard on Orli's chest.

"Do not," he growls, "fuckin presume to tell me what I'm feeling. I don't fuck people for pity. _You_ said 'oh, help me not think--' so I did. In case it never crossed your pussy-fucking-_whipped_ brain, it's very fuckin rude to start talking about someone who fucked you when you just fucked someone else."

He stays there a moment, glaring down, and then he shoves off of Orlando and turns away. "You want to call a cab? Call a sodding cab. Phone's in the goddamned kitchen, and you're fucking welcome, too." Tom realizes his hands are shaking, he's so unreasonably pissed off, and he hates the idea that he's giving Orlando--what. Satisfaction? Who cares. Tom heads out of the sitting room and down the hall again, into the bathroom to splash water on his face.

"I'm sorry," Orlando murmurs, collapsing back onto the couch. He stares at the hallway Tom disappeared down. "'m sorry," he says again, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging them.

All Tom can hear is muttering. He towels his face off and comes barreling out of the loo again. "What the hell are you on about now, Orla--" He stops immediately, seeing how Orlando's curled in on himself.

"Fuck," Tom sighs. It seems to be his favorite self-directed expletive these days. He stumbles around the couch and sits on it, holding his distance. "Honestly, mate, d'you see? If it was about pity fucks, I'd have trucked you off so someone could fix you by now." He puts his hand on Orlando's shoulder and squeezes. "And I definitely wouldn't've shared the stash."

It's pathetic, or at least Orlando thinks it is, how pleased he is to hear that. "Really?"

"Well, yeah," Tom shrugs. "I mean, I like having you about. I haven't had anyone in the flat in ages, and--Jesus, you can't honestly think I don't _want_ you. You're the only one I can fuck around with and then sit and have a pint. I _like_ you." _In spite of Jason,_ he does not add.

What is it about Tom, Orli wonders, that compels such honesty. "I don't," he says flatly. "Like me that is."

"That's 'cos you're a daft fuckin git," Tom grins, and cuffs Orli playfully. "You don't have to like you right now, I like you plenty enough for both of us. You smoked half my dope, mate, wha'd'you want, a wedding ring?"

"Wanker," Orli says, shoving Tom's hand away. "I don't want to be a ... well a bother."

He can still hear both Jason and Ewan telling him he was too clingy, wanted too much. He doesn't want to do that to Tom. And he doesn't want to hope for too much. Because he won't get it.

"What's your point?" Tom grins, in response to the "wanker" remark, and then he sobers a bit. "You're a bother when you're kicking yourself or pining away for--" _The arsehole? The dickwad? The--_ "--Jason. It bothers me 'cos you deserve to have some fun, right now, without worrying. If he calls you, won't that be loverly, but till then, smoke some more and go get the crisps and we'll have another movie, and maybe later on I'll fuck you again, or something else. I've got knives. I mean, I haven't done that shite in ages, it'll be fun."

Tom's babbling, he knows, but he doesn't really care. He just hates to see that lost look in Orlando's eyes.

"Knives?" Orlando perks up a bit. "I can show you some cool knife tricks I learned. And then ... you can show me some different tricks with knives. But ... I really should go home at some point. I mean these are the only clothes I have.

"Sure," Tom nods. "If you want to be alone, you can get a cab, or it's no trouble and I'll run you home. But hell, we're nearly the same size, and I collect clothes, nearly. I've two closets full." He grins. "It's the bloody slumber party that never ends!"

Tilting his head, Orlando stares at Tom. "You want me to stick around for ... what, a few days?" He's confused and is sure Tom will tire of him much more quickly than that.

Tom shrugs. "Sure, why not? S'fun, isn't it?" Something is dawning on Tom, something a little sinister and ugly, and he doesn't like it. It isn't just that he wants to keep Orlando from feeling so alone that he looks longingly at handy drug bottles. It's more than that, and less than it at the same time. Having someone around, suddenly, has thrown it into sharp relief.

Tom is lonely.

"Uh yeah ... just like mates do," Orlando replies. It is like mates, he thinks and it'll be good until Tom gets tired of him. "So ... which movie comes next then?"


	7. Outburst

Tom's really actually pleased with the way things have turned out, though to whose benefit, he can't really say. Orlando's been staying with him for a while now, a couple of weeks, but who's counting? He has a key to the flat and say in the grocery list (and the alcohol purchasing, never forget) and between the two of them, the house stays more or less in a state of chaotic disaster, much to the maid's chagrin, who has offered to come in twice a week now, for her own sanity.

The best thing about this is it *isn't* a thing. There was no grand discussion about giving Orlando a key. For all practical purposes, he had to have one if he was to have any independence at all, and Tom didn't really want him feeling like a guest so much as a flatmate. There was no great talk about how important this was, or what a step... nothing like that. Orlando sleeps in Tom's bed comfortably, and Tom just navigates Orli's rough patches as best he can. They've rather become a fact of life.

It's been ... well comfortable, sharing the flat with Tom. Orlando has sort of taken over the guest bedroom and Tom doesn't seem to mind too much when he disappears in there to nap.

Not that he's ever really napping of course, more like wallowing in self-pity. The portable CD player's had _Pretty Hate Machine_ in it for over a month now, and Orli's has taken to lying on the bed smoking and drinking beer and ... well wallowing.

Really it's not that different from life in his own place only now when he comes out of the room, Tom is there to hang with and chat with. They've watched a lot of really awful modern horror movies and even some of the old Hammer classics, with Orli talking about how cool it was to work with Christopher Lee.

And then at night, Tom seems to assume that Orli will sleep with him and Orli does. Not just becuase Tom expects it but because it's good, surprisingly good, to sleep next to another person.

And of course the sex is brilliant. In spite of Tom's earlier remarks, they haven't done anything all that kinky, although Orlando is never without bite marks and finger shaped bruises.

But today is a little different. Orlando went out, credit card poised and returned several hours later with several big bags from the nearest electronics store. "Hey," he yells as he comes in the front door. "I got toys!"

Tom comes out of the kitchen. He's wearing a frilly, lavender apron and carrying a box of Italian takeaway. "What toys? Holy Christ, what've you bought?"

"Oh hey _nice_ look man," Orli says, laughing at the sight of the apron. "I have here the very latest in gaming entertainment. A PS2! And a ton of games for it."

"Oh and," he adds, pulling something out of his pocket and tossing it to Tom. "We smoked all yours so ... I got in touch with this guy I knew in school and he hooked me up."

Catching the bag awkwardly with one hand, Tom inspects it and then grins. "That rocks. Oh, it looks *good,* too." He puts the bag to his nose and inhales. "Oh, yeah. I'll help you set up that stuff if you want, here in a minute. I'm gonna finish laying out all this food, and then we can partake--" he holds up the baggie-- "before we partake." He holds up the box of ravioli.

"Nah I can set it up if you don't mind my messing about with the telly," Orlando replies as he heads into the sitting room. Soon he's surrounded by boxes and wires, but it's easy and with in moments he has the system set up.

It's a little mind boggling really, he thinks looking around at the huge collection of games he got to go with the system. _Three years ago I was scrambling to be able to afford the occasional six pack of beer and now this._

Eventually, Tom comes out of the kitchen with a tray full of bowls, each full of food, and two forks. "Figured we could just sort of have at it," he says, and looks around. "Jesus, man. You're a whiz kid. I don't know anything about this stuff, you'll have to teach me how to play."

He starts picking through the games--Silent Hill, Metal Gear... "What's this?" he asks, slowly, rifling through the scattered games and holding up a copy of _The Patriot._ He knows good and well what it is, he just wants to hear Orlando's take.

_ Fuck. Just ... fuck. I'm such an idiot._ "Uh...." Orlando begins and then doesn't know what else to say. Obviously he had no intention of letting Tom see the movies he bought along with all the games and the PS2, but he forgot about them in the excitement of setting thngs up.

"Uh," he says again. "I'm sorry...."

Tom sees another, _Armageddon,_ and then another, _St. Ives_. He has a strange sense of something happening in his gut, and he doesn't like it. At all. "S'fine," he mutters tightly, and snatches the bag of pot out of his apron pocket. "It's your obsession. Do with it what you want."

He fingers around in his jeans pocket and tugs out a lighter, after some struggle with the apron, and then finally rips the apron off in a fit of peevishness. "Gonna go outside to smoke this," he says, voice flat. "Don't want the room smelling like dope." He goes into the kitchen where he's stashed his small pipe, and then goes to the back porch.

*Fuck,* he sighs. He knew Orli's disappearing acts were happening with unnerving frequency, but baking out to incessant Nine Inch Nails isn't quite the same as slavering over the--

_Fuckhead. Haven't used that one before._

He lights up, then holds the smoke and finally exhales with satisfaction.

 

_Nice save, Hardy,_ Orlando thinks miserably as he sits in the middle of a pile of games and stuffs the three DVDs back into their bag. He rather numbly gets up, taking the bag, which also holds one of those mini DVD players, to the extra bedroom.

_Maybe I should just pack my stuff up,_ he thinks morosely. he knows damn well Tom doesn't care about the sitting room smelling like weed. Going out back was just an excuse to get away from Orlando and his admittedly rather pathetic obsession.

_Fuck._

It takes Tom a while to chill out enough and get rid of that weird shite happening in his gut. When he's got his head on marginally straight again, he goes back into the house and heads for the guest room right away--there's no question Orlando's in there, anyway.

"Look," he says, hovering in the doorway, "I'm sorry, alright... but you know, we've gone a while without his name coming up, it was just surprising." _More than that, it was disappointing. It did things to me._ The sting goes deeper than that, but Tom's not going there, nuh-uh.

That's the price of living here, Orlando realizes, and he's suddenly angry.

"Yeah well I'm bloody well sorry I can't just rearrange my fucking feelings to keep from surprising you, OK?" he yells. "Fuck you, Hardy, just fuck you!"

Tom takes a step back, stunned, and then catches himself, narrowing his eyes. Orlando's _right_, but that isn't the point. Frankly, Tom isn't sure what the point is, he only knows now he's been verbally bitch-slapped, and his ire's up.

"Fuck me? I guess that's so, isn't it. I thought I was helping you, you know, with this unhealthy shite you've got going on about Jason. I thought you were relaxing a bit, you know, having some fun. _I_ was having fun, at any rate, but you know. Fuck me. Fuck you, too."

He stays there a minute, glaring into the room, and that ugly feeling comes back into his stomach, only this time it's spread to his chest. It _isn't_ that he expects Orlando to rearrange _anything,_ it's only--

"_Fuck_," he spits, and turns on his heel and leaves.

The closest thing at hand is the bag with the DVDs and the player in it and Orli reaches on and grabs a DVD box and flings it against the wall hard. It feels good and so _Armageddon_ is followed in quick measure by the other two DVD packages and then the box containing the player.

Dimly, Orlando's aware that he's yelling "fuck you" over and over at the top of his lungs but he's not really sure who he's yelling at. In fact he's not sure of anything except the fact that this feels really, really good.

By the time Tom makes it to his own bedroom, the sounds of Orli's tantrum reach him. He winces, then grits his teeth and shrieks, "Fuck you, too!" He slams the door hard, then opens it and slams it again, just because he can. He hears something crunch in the doorframe, and snarls.

_This is mad,_ a quiet, placid voice in his head tells him. _What the fuck is so wrong? He's been doing his on-again off-again wallowing for weeks; what's the difference?_ Tom doesn't know, and he doesn't care. He flings himself on the bed and stares at the ceiling.

The sounds of Tom's door being slammed more than once shakes Orlando out of his rage and he almost collapses to the floor. He ends up sitting against the wall, his knees up against his chest. _I'm really fucked up here,"_ he thinks and once more he just wishes it would all go away.

_Once upon a time, there was a happy boy named Orlando. He got the greatest role ever and had the adventure of his life making Lord of the Rings in New Zealand. And then he was in a war movie and his life fell apart._ Orlando buries his head in his hand. No ... don't want to think about it.

He climbs to his feet and heads to the sitting room where he quickly pours himself a gin and drinks it down quickly before pouring another. He starts up the Play Station and slams Tony Hawk Pro Skater into the machine.

He sucks at it largely because he keeps pausing to drink more gin. Well and he's crying of course although he really doesn't notice the tears except to blink them away as he curses losing yet another skater.

Tom has, by now, curled in on himself. He wants to go out there, but he doesn't want to.

_Fuck that,_ he sighs inwardly, and gets up to go into the kitchen. Somehow--Tom has no idea what the fuck happened--he ends up standing behind Orlando, watching him play.

'If you're going to watch, can you get me more gin?" Orlando asks, continuing to play.

Without thinking, Tom goes to the liquor fridge and pulls out the gin. He's halfway back to Orlando before he catches himself, wonders, _What the_ fuck _am I doing?_ Before he can even answer that, he's heading back to the cabinet for scotch.

He takes both bottles and clunks one down next to Orli, then clunks himself down next to Orli and cracks into the scotch, drinking straight out of the bottle, watching the game absently.

Grabbing for the bottle of Tanqueray, Orli slams back a large mouthful and then swears as he loses another skater. Starting the game up again he speaks, almost off handedly.

"No one ever hurt me before you know? Not like that. Never even knew it before he slapped my arse the first time we fucked." He takes another drink. "It was like ... brilliant."

The scotch feels good going down. Tom keeps his eyes on the game, watching as Orlando makes a brilliant move, the kind of thing Tom has no concept of reproducing, and then loses another skater.

"I think I know what you mean," he says quietly. It was very similar for him, but isn't it always more or less the same? Someone does something to you and you go, _Ooh, fuck, let's have that again._

Some of the biggest mistakes start like that, too.

"Yeah well ... it kept being brilliant, you know? He's so good ... I'm sorry I know you don't like me to talk about him. But you need to understand. He'd put his hands round my neck just before I came and then later ... after Ewan, he'd use a belt."

A practiced combination of wrist and thumb action and his skater hits a particularly complex trick only to go crashing into a wall a moment later as Orli takes a quick drink of gin. "People always think I'm too pretty to take pain. And they're always so easy to ... talk into things you know?"

Orlando's skater goes into another wall as he flashes a gorgeous hungry look at Tom. "Everyone falls for it. Only ... Jason never did."

_Christ,_ Tom thinks, and swallows. "Yeah," he says quietly, looking at the screen again and then down at his scotch bottle. "I fell for it too, remember?" He's content to let Orlando think that on that first night, it was that easy. Tom wasn't buying a word of it, and he wasn't buying that the look and the blowjob had any kind of sincerity behind it, either. But he let it happen. And eventually...

Well. "Eventually" seems to have arrived. All in all, he did fall for it. The look Orlando just shot him, though, means nothing now. It isn't that intellectually Tom doesn't know it's all shite, it's that his gut, that ever-increasingly bothersome organ that seems tied to his dick without having anything to do with it, wants to believe.

Tom takes another pull of scotch and focuses on the feel of it going down. He knows Orlando needs to tell this, so he just nods. There doesn't seem to be anything else for him to say.

"He made me feel like ... oh fuck it I don't know. Like someone wanted me. The real me. The me who likes to be hurt and fucked and humiliated and...."

_Fuck, I've gone too far now!_ Orlando clams up, suddenly paying attention to the game and racking up an impressive number of points.

"So, what." Tom unrolls himself and stretches out on his back, holding the scotch bottle upright on his stomach. "He's the first one to do that for you, yeah." Tom's voice is low and even, and he's giving careful thought to his words now, as difficult as that is under two influences.

_Three,_ he corrects himself, and then sighs.

"But honestly, mate. What the hell makes you think no one ever has since then?" Tom tilts his head to the side, looking at Orlando.

"Don't be daft, ya cunt," Orlando replies, his voice much calmer than the words would indicate. "Ewan wasn't as good ... thought Jason'd messed me up too much."

Tom considers letting that roll by, but then he can't. He sits up and shuts the game unit off suddenly, and before Orlando can even get an appropriate squawk out, Tom pulls the power cord out of the back.

"I wasn't talking about Ewan, 'ya cunt.'"

"You're too easy on me," Orlando replies. "I know why but ... well."

_Great, he's doing my thinking again,_ Tom sighs to himself, and then pins Orlando with a hard stare. "You know why. Do tell, O Sage One. Why the fuck _am_ I so easy on you?"

"Cause you think I'm fucking nuts." Orlando shrugs. "Which I am, of course, but that doesn't prevent me from liking to be hurt." He shoots Tom a look. "You afraid of the comparison?"

He doesn't know why he's acting like this ... or maybe he does. Maybe he needs someone else in that place ... but no. No one else can take that place in his life. No one.

The idea simultaneously strikes Tom as a ridiculous assumption and a vast, huge relief. He throws his head back and laughs.

"That's the biggest pile of shite--" He loses it again and shakes his head, then shoves at Orlando's shoulder. "If I thought you were fucking nuts, I'd've called 999 on your arse The Night of the Pill Bottle, and you'd be making your fuckin doe-eyes at some nurse with a syringe and a Cro-Magnon eyebrow."

"So why aren't you then?" Orlando asks. "Afraid you won't measure up?" He throws a fair amount of scorn in his voice, getting that same feeling of recklessness that he gets jumping out of airplanes or off bridges.

Tom is so not going there. "I'm not fucking afraid of the comparison, Orlando, because honestly, d'you really think you'd let there be one? You expect me to get all pissed and in your face and beat you and fuck you now, huh, so I can 'measure up' to that arsehole. Well I'll tell you what you _missed,_ you thick fuckin wanker. Jason made you _feel_ like he wanted you, but I _do_ want you, and if you haven't fuckin figured that out by now, then God only knows why the fuck I'd _demote_ myself playing at being like him."

With that, he gets up, snatches up his scotch, plugs the PS2 back in, and stalks to his bedroom.

Orlando doesn't know how to react. He stares down the hallway after Tom and is suddenly scared. "Dunno what to do," he says as he finishes the gin in his glass. Tom was close, but not dead on.

What he really wants, Orlando thinks, is to see if anyone else can make him feel even a little bit of what Jason made him feel. Without thinking about it too much, he strips out of his clothes. He's still not thinking as he goes to his hands and knees and crawls down the hallway to kneel at Tom's door.

"Please," he says softly. "Please, Tom?"

From his place on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, fingers gripping his hair, Tom looks up. His expression changes from puzzled and irritated to completely dumbstruck.

Suddenly he wants to talk, he wants to _ask_ Orlando what this is, if they're good friends fucking around, or if he wants more, and what "more" is, or if he's going to scream out Jason's name as he comes... but those questions range from dangerous to cruel, and Tom can't ask them. He swallows hard around the ache in his throat and stands up.

"On the bed," he says, his voice thick, and he points up near the headboard, firming up his resolve and ruthlessly shoving down the sober little voice going, _What the fuck--?_

"Hands and knees. Face that way, and then don't move."

Biting back the "yes Sir," he wants to utter, Orlando obeys silently, going still once he's in position.

He's nervous as hell; Tom really hasn't pushed him at all the way Jason did and he has no idea what Tom has in mind here. _But that's the point. The not knowing._ His heart is racing now nad even if Tom's not Jason, he still wants this.

Tom watches Orli for a moment, just watches him. He wants so badly to pull the sadist-to-masochist joke on Orli and just leave; he doesn't know why he ordered Orli up there. It isn't because he wants to "measure up." It isn't because he's feeling particularly congenial toward Orli and just wants to do him a favor. It isn't because he hasn't done this in ages; if it were that simple, he'd have been doing it from the beginning.

_He asked._ There's that sober voice again, but this time Tom can acknowledge it. He asked, and Tom, for that reason, will give it. It's a start.

"I am going to hurt the fuck out of you, Orlando, and I want you thinking about why you're here. Why the fuck you've stayed if you honestly think I think you're loony. Why you think no one else has ever wanted to _be something_ to you but Jason. Think about that." As he talks, he is rummaging through drawers, looking... _there._

The answer is brutally simple but even the gin he had earlier isn't going to let Orlando say it out loud. _Because I have no where else to go._

Well it's a little more complex really. It started out like that but now it's because Orli likes being here, being with Tom. And so he's trying not to think too much of Jason because Tom does care and it's not fair to Tom.

And Orlando wants to be fair to Tom, he realizes.

Tom has pulled out a wide rattan cane. He swings it once through the air, sharply, just so Orlando can hear it.

"You can think of this as punishment, if you want," Tom murmurs. "From me to you. For assuming what I thought about all this." Tom leaves out any mention of the sting of realizing that Orlando so easily overlooks, forgets, or is too dense to realize that Tom is here. Right here. Now. And Tom has gotten really good at just leaving Orlando in his dark little oblivion, and he isn't about to fuck that up now.

_Whatever makes it easy on you,_ Tom thinks, and brings the cane down sharply on Orli's ass, no warning but the whoosh of air.

"Oh fuck!" Orlando yells, although he manages to remain mostly still.

This hurts and it's not like Jason's belts or his hands or even that ruler he got from one of the ADs. It's a startling pain and then it sort of repeats.

It's breathtakingly good.

"I," Tom mutters, as he swings again (_crack_), and then talks a bit to give Orli time to recover, "am never going to bring him up again. I'm never going to say another word if you do. You may have it. Drive yourself bloody mad with it, if it suits you. I'd say I don't care, but that's not it at all. It's only that I can't stop you."

_whoosh, crack_

"But if you ever _think_ you'll get away with telling me what I'm thinking or why I'm fuckin _nice_ to you, you'll have me struggling to decide between beating you _crack_) and throwing you out on your arse."

Tom hasn't told him to be quiet and Orlando really likes that. He yells after each blow and really isn't paying that much attention to Tom's words. He doesn't' really care, as long as Tom's hurting him.

Well no, he does care but the hurt is more important now. "Please...." he moans. "More please?"

Tom doesn't really know how he came to be in this place, with the cane in his hand and Orlando begging him. He suspects it happened rather like the moving-in thing did. By wordless agreement and the passage of something on the air, here they are. And he's viewing this with a strange kind of intellectualism, that Orlando's needed this all along, and Tom should have known it. But no; the time was never right. Orli would never have accepted it till now.

As he mulls this over, Tom continues to lay stripe after stripe across Orlando's arse and upper thighs. Soon, he's breathing hard with the exertion and the adrenaline, and, yes, he's hard.

His fists clenched in the sheets Orlando is holding on by sheer will. He can't even scream any more, all that he can manage are hoarse gasps. He knows he should call for a stop, but he's completely incapable. It's all so fucking _good_.

And then the tears come and he's collapsing to the bed sobbing his heart out.

Tom is actually raising the cane for another strike when Orlando collapses. He's panting, staring, angry with a low, dim throbbing he can't quite figure out. And then, for no reason that he can discern, he is stripping down, climbing onto the bed, parting Orlando's legs.

He realizes Orlando probably thinks he's about to get fucked, and maybe, Tom thinks, he is. After a while. But Tom hunkers down between Orli's thighs and looks at the damage he's done, the bleeding, the ragged welts, and then, almost helpless to stop himself, he begins to lick at the blood.

"God yes ... please," Orlando begins. Then instead of getting what he expects, Tom starts licking at his welts.

"Fuck!" Orlando cries out. The bizarre, almost tender nature of the act startles him and he's moaning now, great low noises that come through the tears as if they're being ripped out of him.

Tom isn't thinking much about anything, now, other than the taste of Orlando's skin through the blood and the moans Orli is loosing. Tom continues to lick, patiently, teasing... maybe. Cleaning... not really. Tasting... yes.

Before he realizes, again, what he's doing, Tom is gripping Orli's cheeks hard and spreading him open, then diving in with his tongue, kissing and licking and sucking and even biting a little, then fucking Orlando with his tongue.

Life is just one long moan now, Orlando realizes dimly. he's arching his back like a cat, and spreading his legs like a whore and moaning like a dying man. "Please," he begins to chant in between moans. "Please, please...."

"You want me to fuck you?" Tom asks, not a question, just a demand to hear Orli ask for it, or better yet, beg for it. But he's already reaching for the lube.

"Yeah please? God please Tom ... fuck me ... shove it in me and make me fucking scream ... c'mon ... please ... please?"

Orlando has just enough presence of mind not to call Tom Sir, but he wants to. Wants to give Tom something like that anyway. But all he can give is himself and he spreads his legs and arches his back, letting his body beg too.

It's _make me fucking scream_ that makes Tom freeze and decide against the lube. Instead, he leans up over Orlando's back, pressing the front of his thighs against the hot welts, and shoves two fingers into Orlando's mouth.

"That's all you're going to get, so you'd better do a good job."

Orlando sucks on Tom's fingers as if they were Tom's cock covered in chocolate sauce. Hes' still crying and he still hurts and he knows this is going to hurt more.

_It's going to be so fucking good._

Tom's more or less lost. He pulls his fingers away from Orli's mouth, draws back a bit, and then plunges those two fingers into Orlando. He twists his hand, then rakes his fingertips over Orli's prostate, _hard._

Shoving back against Tom's fingers, Orlando whimpers. "More ... please, please ... more...."

_Christ,_ Tom thinks, and pulls back as though Orlando scorched him. Immediately he's fitting his cock against Orli's entrance and shoving home.

"Fuck!" Tom grits out, and begins to draw out again only to slam back in. Orlando's so _hot,_ and the pleading Orli's doing is just so fucking good.

"Good," he moans tightly, and sets up a hard, driving rhythm.

"Yeah good ... fucking good ... fucking .. fuck..." Orlando, when he's not gagged, tends to talk alot during sex. The more he swears, the better it is. All he's doing now is muttering "fuck" when he has enough breath to speak.

Tom's hands dig into Orlando's hips hard, and then that's not good enough; he leans down, wraps an arm around Orli's waist, and then reaches under to make a hard fist around Orli's cock.

"Do it," Tom grunts out.

Ironically enough, although Orlando's not thinking about that right now, it was Jason who conditioned Orlando to come on command. But for once, Orlando's not remembering Jason. He's not thinking at all, just wailing like a cat and coming hard, thrusting into Tom's fist and then back onto his cock.

Letting out a long, hungry moan, Tom thrusts once more, and then once more, and then comes, bending down to bite Orlando's shoulder sharply.

He realizes he's marking Orli again, and it isn't even that he doesn't care, now. It's that he *wants* to. He can't think about what that means, though, because once he's spent, he's dropping his forehead to the back of Orli's shoulder and gasping for air.

"So good," Orlando mutters, utterly done in. He hurts everywhere and it's brilliant. Well except for his head which is pounding a little from the crying and the gin.

But he'll worry about that later, just like he'll worry about what this means and what is says about his relationship -- whatever it is -- with Tom. As he drifts off to sleep on a wave of endorphins, he muzzily congratulates himself for not thinking about Jason the entire time.

Tom doesn't curl up with Orlando this time; he's worried about the welts and hot and sticky, and he figures sleep would be better with a little space. Instead, he kisses Orlando's forehead, then his shoulder, and just lies there, thinking.


	8. Hilt

Tom's been planning.

It isn't just that he's been planning; it's that he's been planning for _Orlando,_ and he's bought things, and set everything out so well that he's sure he's got everything right. Knives, candles, gauzes, and such a lovely assortment of silk handkerchiefs.

_Oh, yes,_ he sighs to himself. _This is brilliant. This is perfect._

_It must be,_ he promises himself, looking around. _It _has_ to be._

Orlando is in an oddly good mood. He's been to his flat and in spite of the fact that there are no messages from Jason, he's less bothered than he expected. To celebrate, he's bought a truly insane about of expensive groceries. Four kinds of Ben and Jerry's ice cream, a luxury that Astin introduced him too, uncounted bags of crisps, several bottles of really good gin and a lot of the more staple items they need.

He tips the cabbie extra for helping him bring the groceries to the door and then piles everything inside. "I bring stuff!" he yells.

Silence meets him and he wonders if Tom went out or something. He's more distressed by that than he likes to admit and he quickly puts away the groceries, sighing a little. He worries, now that things are going well, that Tom will tire of him. He expects it sooner or later, but every day that passes with Tom has him hoping for later.

It's only as he stocks up the drinks cabinet that he sees the note directing him to Tom's room taped to the TV. He glances down the hall way and sure enough Tom's door is closed.

Quickly shedding his clothes, he crawls down the hall and taps lightly on the door. It's not like Tom has told him he has to crawl, it's just that Tom won't let him say "Sir" and this is the best he can do.

Tom hears the way the knock sounds and knows Orli's down there on his knees already. It doesn't matter. "Come on," he murmurs casually, as though it doesn't matter if Orlando comes in or not.

Reaching up to open the door, Orlando pushes it aside with his head and crawls into Tom's room, only to pull up short. There are candles everywhere, in fact they provide he only light.

It's weirdly romantic and Orli doesn't quite know what to make of it. He kneels up silently; again not something Tom ever told him to do. In fact Jason never trained him to do it either; it was something he read about online while waiting during the weeks in Morocco while everyone else filmed and he didn't.

"I've got plans for you," Tom says softly, and flicks a hand toward the bed before turning away again. When he turns back, he's holding a large dagger, obviously very sharp and well-loved.

Caught in the act of moving to the bed, Orlando freezes again when he sees the knife. "You're ... going to cut me?"

"Not yet," Tom breathes. He turns the knife around and grips the blade in a careful, practiced hand. "Not yet." He makes a small thrusting motion with the hilt.

"Oh..." Orli breathes, a little disappointed. But still the perversity of being fucked with the hilt of a dagger appeals and he finishes getting on the bed. "How do you want me?" he asks. _Wish he'd let me call him Sir._

Tom lets out an evil smile. "Just hang on," he says, nodding toward the headboard, and he sheaths the dagger and plunges the hilt of it in a tub of lube. "You'll want to hang on for this," he adds.

"Yeah..." Orlando replies, quickly getting on his knees and grabbing at the head board. He spreads his legs a bit and arches his back, silently begging.

"Yeah," Tom agrees breathlessly, and moves onto the bed beside Orli, resting a hand at the small of his back. "You've wanted this, haven't you? Slut. You've wanted me to fuck you with something I could just as easily kill you with." The wording's come to Tom almost last-minute, but he knows somehow it's accurate. Orlando's a thrill-seeker, but more importantly, he's sought something in these recent days that's more in compliance with his loneliness for Jason.

It's odd; Orlando has somehow found his peace with Jason and stopped mentioning him, and Tom has somehow found his peace with Jason and stopped demanding that Orlando stop mentioning him. And now Tom 's found a way to cater to both: Orlando's need for harshness and his same need to know he's safe. Tom has no idea how he came to that understanding, but it happened, just the same. He doesn't think about the implications, he just acts on them. Those acts have brought him to the point of gripping the low end of a dagger hilt and lubing it so he can fuck Orlando with it. Funny how things work in this world.

"Oh God yes," Orlando breathes in reply. "Wanna be a slut for you ... fucking _am_ a slut for you. Need it to hurt...."

The words drive something through Tom, something like a shiver, although he knows by now that's too much to account for. He wants it to be some shuddery bodily reaction after Orlando says whatever words he needs to hear--but by now, he's so fucking gunshy he can't drum up the real response. He wants to. He does. But he can't.

"I need you to hurt," he murmurs in reply to Orlando, gritting his teeth a little and gripping the dagger firmly. "I want you to." And he drives the hilt of the dagger in, twisting it until the arms of the hilt are curled against Orli's ass and balls, like some gorgeous Baroque decoration.

Even though the dagger hilt is lubed and even though overall, it's smaller than a cock, it still fucking hurts going in. The pommel is big and painful and then the hilt is rippled and ... _fuck_ but it's hard and hurting and really fucking good.

"Fuck!" Orli yells. "Jesus fucking Christ!" He throws his head back and grips the headboard hard and tires to shove back against the dagger and Tom's hand, even though he knows it's in as far as it can go.

Tom smiles slowly. "I knew you'd like this," he sighs. "I knew you were enough of a slut to want it." He drags the hilt out about halfway and then shoves it in again, then adds another hard push onto the end of that for the sake of it.

"Yeah," Orlando growls. "Yeah yeah ... fuck me with it Tom ... oh God please..."

It's humiliating to be here like this, bent over on his knees and forearms, clinging to the headboard and begging to be fucked with a thing.

_It's bloody brilliant!_

Tom loves the sound of Orlando begging, and he can see what an impact this is having.

"Like that, do you?" he breathes, and he starts to thrust harder with the knife. "I do, too. I think you know I could hurt the fuck out of you with this, but you know I won't. Or... you _hope_ I won't." He gives a little smile and then bends down to bite a spot on Orlando's back sharply, randomly.

"Hope you _will_&lt;" Orlando gasps out. "Want to hurt ... so much ... fucking need to hurt ... makes it better ... _you_ make it better..."

Tom rips the hilt away from Orli's ass and holds it up. "I don't think you knew what I was talking about, boy," he hisses. In illustration, he drags the very point of the knife down Orlando's spine and over one cheek, and then he presses the tip into the skin there, holding it. "You hope I'll hurt the fuck out of you?" he asks, a bit incredulous at Orli's recklessness.

Orlando shivers as the knife moves, although the oddest sensation isn't the point against his skin, it's the weirdly null feeling as the knife meets his scar. "Yeah," he replies. "Want you to take me places ... hurt me ... make me feel something good..."

He's never been able to explain it, although to be honest, he's never tried. Neither Jason nor Ewan cared why he wanted pain and before them he only knew that he wanted something nebulous that seemed just out of reach.

Tom loves the sound of Orlando begging, and he can see what an impact this is having.

"Like that, do you?" he breathes, and he starts to thrust harder with the knife. "I do, too. I think you know I could hurt the fuck out of you with this, but you know I won't. Or... you _hope_ I won't." He gives a little smile and then bends down to bite a spot on Orlando's back sharply, randomly.

"Hope you _will_&lt;" Orlando gasps out. "Want to hurt ... so much ... fucking need to hurt ... makes it better ... _you_ make it better..."

Tom rips the hilt away from Orli's ass and holds it up. "I don't think you knew what I was talking about, boy," he hisses. In illustration, he drags the very point of the knife down Orlando's spine and over one cheek, and then he presses the tip into the skin there, holding it. "You hope I'll hurt the fuck out of you?" he asks, a bit incredulous at Orli's recklessness.

Orlando shivers as the knife moves, although the oddest sensation isn't the point against his skin, it's the weirdly null feeling as the knife meets his scar. "Yeah," he replies. "Want you to take me places ... hurt me ... make me feel something good..."

Tom really does want Orlando to feel something good. He _needs_ to by now. He traces his fingertips almost absently over Orli's scar, following the knife, then turns the knife hilt out again and pushes it against Orli's entrance without pushing it in.

"Fuck yourself on it," he orders, voice harsh. "I want to see that."

Without thinking, Orlando pushes back hard. "Yeah," he groans. "Fuck yeah ... like that ... like it a whole lot..."

It's perversity piled on perversity and it hurts which is, in the end, what's really important. It ties him to the moment and any thoughts or fears or emotional concerns are lost in the pain and humiliation.

Groaning, Tom watches Orlando throw himself back onto the knife's handle for a moment longer, then he can't stand it anymore. He wrenches the knife away, throws it down, and replaces it with his cock, gripping Orli's hips and shoving into him with rough, hard urgency.

"Ahh--" he cries out, and starts to fuck Orlando hard, fast, rushing toward coming almost blindly, and very selfishly. It's an afterthought to reach under Orli and grab his cock, and that's the best Tom can do before he's gasping and all but thrashing over Orli's back, grunting as it spills out of him.

It's only when Orlando realizes how desperate Tom was, that any concern for Orli himself was an afterthought that he begins to beg. "Please ... oh God please ... need it ... please ... please Sir?"

It doesn't occur to him that he's been trying to not call Tom "sir" since they started fucking. It's too intense --the idea that Tom was just using him -- not to beg like this.

Tom caves a little, too amazed at Orlando's abandon to correct him on the "Sir" thing, and maybe there's a part of Tom that would just rather not bicker about something so trivial when he thinks...maybe...he might be _reaching_ Orli at last.

_Best not to think of that,_ he admonishes himself, and manages to rasp out, "Yes. Yeah. Come." He is distinctly not wondering if Jason required permission--or even if he cared whether Orli came or not. He is distinctly not thinking about what kinds of things Jason did to arrive at this point. He's not wondering where Orlando's mind is right now.

He isn't, goddammit.

With a loud yell, Orlando comes, shoving hard into Tom's hand. He slumps over then, finally letting go of the headboard. "Thank you," he whispers, only know remembering that he called Tom "sir." "I'm sorry..."

"Hush," Tom mutters, just this side of sharp. He settles next to Orlando and presses a kiss to the first patch of skin he can reach, then follows that up with a bite. "It's okay." He still isn't sure about that "Sir" thing, but it's just not worth arguing over. Not now.

"Mmmmm," Orlando purrs, arching a little into the bit. "Mmmm...." He snuggles back. "That was brilliant, mate."

Pleased, maybe more than he should be, Tom slides his fingers up into Orli's hair and then catches his mouth in a slow, hot kiss.

"Yeah," he agrees, tucking Orlando against him. "It was. It was really good, Orlando." And, to his surprise, the phrase _Good boy_ almost--not quite, but almost--makes it past his lips.

Orlando moves in even closer, looking around the room. "Why all the candles?"

Tom hedges, a little embarrassed for some reason. "Just felt like it," he mutters, nuzzling at Orlando's shoulder. "Dunno."

"Mmmm..." Orli manages again. It's warm and the air is a little close and he's drowsy and quite content, which is a lovely feeling. "'s romantic," he says. _Shit. Oh fuck! Didn't mean to say that. He's gonna fucking kick me out!_

_Romantic,_ Tom repeats in his head, surprised. "Yeah," he sighs, a little smile growing on his lips. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?" And he tugs Orli closer, even though it's hot and sticky already and they're practically covered in come. "Romantic." Tom smiles into the dimness contentedly.

Already braced to be kicked out, Orlando pauses a moment before relaxing again. "And ... that's OK?"

Tom snorts lightly. "Well, sure. I mean, I'm the one that lit the bloody things--" He stops abruptly, realizing that might divulge more than he means it to.

_We're fuckin dancing on eggshells,_ he realizes, and frowns. Then he turns Orli onto his back and grips Orli's shoulders and leans down over him.

"Yes," Tom breathes. "Yes, it's romantic. Yes, that's okay. Alright? I wanted it to be romantic." He watches Orlando a moment, then settles back down against him, tugging him close, firmly. Orli squirms at night, but tonight, Tom doesn't care, and he doesn't care if Orli feels weird about all the snuggling.

"Oh," Orlando replies. He lets his breathing calm and slow and squirms a little against Tom as if he's drifting off. He's good at this -- faking sleep -- very good at it and now he does his best as he settles in to think.

Tom gives Orlando a few minutes to go to sleep (he hopes), then gives in. It's getting harder and harder to act like mates who happen to fuck and share a flat. He presses a warm kiss to Orlando's shoulder and tucks himself even closer, if that were possible. Then he drifts off himself.

This was better than Jason. It's all Orlando can think about and he feels awful about it. It's not fair to anyone, either Tom or Jason. Jason wasn't romantic because ... well it couldn't happen there in Morocco.

_Bullshit. We lost power all the damn time; our rooms had candles, and he could have lit them for mood. He could have ordered room service or gone out with me and the guys even if we had to pretend we weren't lovers._

Orlando tries not to cry. He hasn't cried over Jason once in Tom's bed, in Tom's arms. It's not right and yet ...

The tears come anyway and the best Orlando can hope for is that they don't wake Tom up.

They do wake Tom up--but he knows better by now than to share that little tidbit of information. He knows Orlando doesn't want him to be aware of those tears, so he simply makes a sleepy noise and nuzzles closer, suppressing the thick sadness that comes from being aware he's been set aside again. It's always Jason, no matter if he's making Orlando nostalgic or downright sad.

Normally Orli can make the tears go away but this time he's facing a base truth and he can't. From small, almost silent, hitched breaths, he moves up to full fledged sobs, not longer thinking about pretending that he's asleep.

And Tom can't pretend he's asleep any longer, either. It isn't a matter now of how much noise Orlando's making, now Tom's concerned. He doesn't know what to say, though, or what to ask to get Orlando to talk. He slides an arm under Orli's shoulders and shifts over, holding Orlando, looking down at him, stroking his forehead.

"Shhh," he whispers, shaking his head. "Shh. It's okay." Tom can't guarantee anything like that, but he wants to believe it so badly, he's willing to say it anyway.

"He ... fuck ... he'd have never ... done this for me ... didn't really care about me...." He can't talk any more and instead clings to Tom and cries.

That should be giving Tom some kind of smug satisfaction, a private I-told-you-so sense of righteousness. Instead, he hurts for Orlando. He holds Orli closer and kisses his cheeks and his forehead, murmuring what he knows now as useless nonsense about everything being okay.

"Try not to think about that," Tom finally whispers, resting his forehead on Orlando's. "Just think about me. About this. We're here, now. And I wanted to do this for you. I do care about you. I do." _Love you,_ Tom finishes in his head, and then flushes red as though he'd said the words aloud.

"I loved him" Orlando says, tiredly as the crying jag winds down. He doesn't notice the past tense. Doesn't realize that it's the first time he's said it like that.

"I know," Tom murmurs, petting Orli's hair, and then kissing him softly. "I know." He doesn't know, doesn't really have any idea, but he's thinking he's starting to.

"I ... don't know what to think," Orlando says softly. When he can't think, action usually helps. He moves and grimaces a little. "Tom? Will you take a shower with me?"

"Yeah," Tom murmurs, nodding. "Yeah, I will." He gives a little grin. "I've got some green tea shite the woman at the Lancome counter shoved at me, it's all bubbly and _exfoliating._ Want to try it?"

"Fucking shirt lifter," Orli says affectionately as he gets out of bed. "You're a big girl's blouse Tom." He pauses a moment. "And ... thanks."


	9. Information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to kyuuketsukirui for writing Ewan in this chapter.

They're out of coffee and while Tom isn't picky, Orlando is. It has to be organic and it has to be dark and so there are only a couple of places to go to in London to get the stuff he really wants.

He's in a mixed mood; it's only been a few days since he finally admitted to himself what he knew all along: Jason never loved him and never really even cared that much about him. It still hurts but not as much as it would if he didn't have Tom in his life.

So he's smiling as he walks in and orders his coffee. Tom's at a meeting with his agent and so Orli gets a soy latte and a couple of biscuits and settles down to read the paper. It's a nice sunny day and there are pigeons competing for crumbs and if life isn't perfect, it is in fact, not bad.

Ewan snorts derisively as he enters the shop. Organic fucking coffee. Just another excuse to up the price is all. He orders one of their blends, the first on the list. Doesn't matter. Just something to wake him up a bit.

Once he's served (_finally!_), he moves down the counter to where the sugar and all that is. He adds a couple packets, a bit of milk, and stirs it absently, meaning to leave as soon as the bint in front of him stops blocking the napkins.

He's about to leave then when he sees a familiar face. It's been a while since Orli finally gave up ringing, and Ewan hesitates, tempted to just leave without saying anything lest the kid get the wrong idea. He doesn't, though. Instead he makes his way over to the small table and sits down in the empty chair across from Orli.

"Hey."

_Fuck. Of all the people I don't want to see._

Orlando doesn't -- can't -- look up from his paper. "Ewan," he says, fighting down the familiar rush of arousal that coils in his stomach. Ewan is good; being fucked by him was brilliant and yet he was always profoundly aware of the fact that he disappointed Ewan. He tried -- _God how I tried_ \-- to make up for it, but Ewan didn't want his devotion any more than Jason did.

_Jason. Why does it keep coming back to him?_

"Here by yourself?" Ewan asks, blowing on his coffee absently before taking a sip.

"Yeah," Orlando mutters. He's just like he was before, tied up in knots and weirdly shy, and he wonders how it is that Ewan can still do this to him.

_Because Jason gave me to him_, he remembers. He also remembers the thrill that occurred when he realized that Jason didn't want to share him with Ewan. _Oh yeah, made me think I mattered to him. And I did. The way your favorite pair of jeans matter; if someone else wears them, they aren't shaped just right anymore._

With a flash of almost defiance in his eyes, Orlando looks up. "Who would I be here with?"

"Not Jason, I'm guessing, eh?" Of course not Jason. Jason's off doing whatever it is that Liam has his boys do. _Learning to give better head_, Ewan thinks spitefully. He takes another sip, watching Orli's face for a reaction.

In spite of himself, Orlando looks eager. "Have you heard from him?" he asks, trying for a casualness he knows he doesn't manage.

"Saw him a few months ago, actually." Ewan pauses and then adds, "You know Liam Neeson?"

It's such a complete non sequiter that Orlando blinks in confusion. "Uh yeah, I've heard of him," he replies. "Who hasn't?"

"'s where I saw Jason. Crawling on the floor and serving me drinks," Ewan says casually. "At Liam's."

Orlando stares at Ewan in shock. Then he blinks, remembering that Ewan has what even Jason called "an odd sense of humor".

"Oh yeah very funny," he says sourly. "If you haven't heard from him you could just say so; no need to be such an arsehole."

"Well, I can see why you wouldn't want to believe it." Ewan shrugs. What does he care if Orli wants to continue living in some fantasy world.

Slowly it dawns on Orlando that Ewan is serious. _Jason ... on his knees? With Liam Neeson?_ "But ... what ... _why?!_"

"Why?" Ewan shrugs again. Hell if he knows. "Why did you want to be on your knees for Jason?"

"Well," Orlando brushes the rest of the statement away with an impatient gesture that implies the answer to Ewan's question is obvious. "But that's different. Jason told me that he doesn't do that."

While it's true that Jason told him a lot of things, many of which proved to be false, the genuine contempt in his face when Orlando asked if he'd ever taken pain or been a bottom was too real to be a lie.

"Maybe he just didn't realize he wanted it. Maybe Liam changed his mind. Maybe he wanted to please Liam..." Ewan trails off, letting that last one sink in.

There isn't anything to say really, but Orlando can't let go of it. All his uneasy self-congratulation at being (sort of) over Jason vanishes. "He was ... crawling?"

The only time Orlando ever saw Jason crawl was at boot camp, when Jason was pushing himself because the real soldiers expected the "captain" to set an example and lead. And even there, on his belly in the Georgia mud, Jason looked tough and in charge.

"Crawling," Ewan confirms. He cocks his head slightly, idly smoothing a napkin on the table. The picture of nonchalance. "Do you want the details? You must be curious."

**_No!_** Orli thinks. Which is, of course, why he opens his mouth and says, "Hell yeah I'm curious."

_Bloody hell! I really am a fucking masochist._

Ewan takes a drink of his coffee to hide his smirk. "Like I said, I was over at Liam's a few months ago. Just for drinks and the like. Anyway, so there's Jason, crawling about the house, serving me drinks, sucking me off. He'd been Liam's boy for, I think Liam said about a fortnight or so by then." He snorts. "Betcha can't even picture it."

One of Orlando's problems has always been an active imagination. And now he's trying not to exercise it. Of course the totally bizarre concept of Jason crawling is quickly lost in the disturbing idea of Jason sucking Ewan off.

"He ... he did that? For _you_?!"

"Wasn't even that good." Ewan is thoroughly enjoying himself. Poor Orli looks gobsmacked at the very concept of Jason as anyone's boy; Ewan thinks he'd probably be fairly surprised himself under similar circumstances.

He leans forward, lowering his voice. "He was on his knees, fumbling his way through a half-decent blowjob. _Because Liam told him to._ And when I wasn't satisfied with the job he was doing, I finished myself off and came on his face. And he took it without a word. For _Liam_."

"But Neeson's old!" Orlando blurts out before he can stop himself. "Why would Jason..." he trails off, seriously reaching for straws. "What's he got on Jason?"

Because honestly why in hell would Jason bottom for an old bloke when he could have had Orli as his boy?

"Jason's not exactly young himself, you know?" Ewan laughs. "Liam's got maybe a decade on him. Anyway, it's nothing like that. They met at a party." Neglecting to mention his hand in it, Ewan continues, "Maybe it was love at first sight."

"Love? Fucking _love_?! Jason," Orlando manages to grind out through gritted teeth, "doesn't _do_ love."

"All right," Ewan agrees easily. "Maybe not love, then. But this was his choice, make no mistake. You may think Liam's old and I may think he's a bastard, but there's no shortage of men, or women, for that matter, willing to sub for him. He's no need to force anyone into it." _Much less someone as bad at it as Jason._

"And you?" Orlando asks nastily. "You're a friend of his; were you his boy once?"

Not that he really cares, of course; he's just lashing out at random because he'd much rather be bitchy to Ewan than cry in front of him.

Ewan chokes, a mouthfull of coffee burning its way into his lungs. "Me? Liam's boy?" He asks incredulously. "He wishes. I don't go in for that shite, but if I did you sure wouldn't see me subbing for anyone." Shaking his head, he adds pointedly, "_I_ don't get off some bloke telling me what to do."

Although it's not easy, Orlando manages one last bit of snark as he rises to his feet. "Well you're certainly no good at it from the other side. Trust me, of the three tops I've had, you come in a distant third."

_And please don't ask me who comes in first._

Surging to his feet, Ewan grabs Orli by the throat. His voice is low and even, anger thickening his accent, and his breath is hot on Orli's cheek. "You haven't seen me at it from the other side, because _I don't do that shite_. Make no mistake, _boy_," he spits the word out, "that if I wanted to take you down, if I wanted to fucking humiliate you and have you begging at my feet, I would. And you would be fucking gagging for it." With a final squeeze, he lets go and steps back, eyeing Orli disdainfully.

It's not the fact that the people at nearby tables are undoubtedly looking at them that has Orlando's face burning. He does everything he can not to even glance down at the front of his own jeans, where he knows his erection has to be visible, given the way he can practically feel each button in the fly.

As he flees the patio for the street beyond, Ewan's last words echo in his mind. _And you would be fucking gagging for it._

_God I so would too. What the fuck is wrong with me that just any guy can put his hand on my throat and I'm hard for it?_

He heads blindly for home -- not really thinking that home now is Tom's flat -- mopping the tears from his cheeks.

Ewan watches calmly as Orli bolts from the cafe. No longer angry now that he's gotten the reaction he wanted - _needed_ \- he takes one last drink of his rapidly cooling coffee and bins the rest on his way out.

Well. That was interesting. And there will be pickups soon, and that will be interesting, too.


	10. Revealing

Tom is pretty cheerful; he's got a bit of Greek food tonight, and a couple of six-packs of Bass. Dusk is settling. He's not used to getting in this late, but he decided the wait for lamb and feta was worth it.

But something's odd. As he pulls up to the flat, he notices none of the lights shine through the drapes. Frowning, he locks up the car and hefts the bags and heads inside.

It's dark. And--there sits Orlando, rolled up into a ball on the sofa.

_Oh. Christ._ Tom is immediately nervous about this. "Bad feeling" doesn't quite come close.

"Orlando?" His voice is soft and concerned; he sets the bags of takeaway unceremoniously on the coffee table with his keys and sits down next to Orli on the sofa.

Orlando hears Tom come in, but he's too numb to even lift his head from where it rests on his crossed arms. He's done crying, for now at least, but speech is still difficult.

"Hi," he says inanely.

Tom scoots a little closer and drapes an arm around Orli's shoulders. "What happened?" he asks, very softly.

"Ewan," Orlando mumbles.

Tom doesn't _mean_ to bristle whenever he hears any name associated with That Prick, but he does it anyway. "What happened?" he insists, one flat hand rubbing little circles between Orli's shoulder blades.

"Met him at the coffee place," Orli says, sighing. tom's hand feels good, more than good, it feels like a lifeline. "He ... he said ... fuck...."

Hanging up a bit on the phrasing--in a way that doesn't feel good at _all_\--Tom says quietly, "Wait. Wait. You--met him there?"

Too preoccupied to catch Tom's tone of voice, Orlando nods. "Went to get more beans and ... there he was, you know? And he said he'd seen...." And damnit but there are the tears again, less than a week after he'd swore he'd never cry over Jason Isaacs again.

"Ah, fuck," Tom murmurs, feeling guilty that he actually let himself go irritable at the idea that Orlando would deliberately go somewhere to meet Ewan for anything. "He saw him?" he asks, voice still soft, thinking maybe this'll be easier if that name just doesn't come up.

Yeah, right.

"Thought he was joking at first," Orlando says, sniffing loudly. "Said that ... that Jason's with someone else." _I hate this ... hate it ... hate crying like this in front of Tom._

"Oh," Tom whispers. His hand slows a bit, and he runs his fingers up through Orlando's hair, just playing aimlessly, wondering what to do. "D'you want a drink? I've got Bass." He tries to make that sound enticing, but figures gin is probably more the speed at this point.

"He's Liam Neeson's boy," Orlando blurts out. "Uh ... gin please."

Tom winces. "Bloody hell, Orlando, I'm sorry." He leans in a little, pressing his forehead to Orlando's temple. "And Ewan just felt the need to share, huh."

_Fucker._

"How ... I still don't understand...." Orlando stutters. "Why would he...?"

Tom has no reply to that. He wants to. God alone knows there've been a thousand times he's wanted to find just the thing to say to give Orlando some grand religious fuckin epiphany that will cure him of this urge to flail himself with Jason's memory. But there's nothing to hand. _Because he's an idiot_ doesn't quite work, here, and it might just get Orlando's ire up again. So Tom sighs heavily and presses a kiss to the side of Orli's head and gets up for the gin.

"I don't understand," Orlando repeats almost as if he's asking Tom to explain a convoluted theorem. "Jason ... he wouldn't do that."

"But he has," Tom sighs into the liquor fridge. "There's no explaining him, Orlando. Maybe... maybe that's why he treated you like shite, because he didn't know _how_ to own someone, you know?" As soon as the words are out, Tom wants to bite them back again. He can already hear the answer.

He tugs the gin bottle out and grabs two glasses. He doesn't even bother with tonic.

"Maybe...." But no, it's too much of an admission; while the pedestal shows signs of cracking, it hasn't fallen yet. Orlando mops his eyes with his sleeve and sniffs again. "I wish...."

_No you don't say that in front of Tom. You can't._

_Clunk_. Bottle on the table. Tom's starting to think he isn't going to bother with glasses, either.

"I know you do," he says quietly. "And you know, sometimes I wish _for_ you." Another thing he wants to bite back, but he can't, so he explains, "You know if I thought it was safe, and I could make him want you back, I would."

_Jesus fuck, Thomas,_ he snipes at himself, and takes a glass after all, pouring it deeply.

Blinking, Orlando hastily explains. "No not that ... I just wish I could talk to him."

He's startled at the words; utterly shocked. And maybe he's lying because maybe he would go back to Jason. Go back to those hard hands and that cruel voice and all the long hours of just hanging around waiting to be used....

_What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. Me?_

Something surprising happens to Tom then: he gets angry.

"Don't you fucking play that crap with me, bitch," he snarls, and gets up, downing his gin all at once and shuddering as he slams the glass back onto the table. "'Just wanting to talk to him' wouldn't have you sitting here in a dark fucking room wrapped up in a cozy pity party for one. Now I can accept that he gave you something you've never had before, and I can accept it's hard to come down out of that, and I can accept that McGregor's a fuckin arsehole for--oh I can just fucking _imagine_ him, I bet he's home right now wanking to the image of the look on your face." Wheeling around, he gets himself back on track: "But don't you fuckin play this with me, I'm not stupid and I'm _not_ Jason, I'm not going to put up with you telling me shite because you think I want to hear it and I'm _not_ going to take you fucking lying to me."

Orlando flinches and draws more deeply in on himself. "I'm trying Tom ... I'm trying...."

Orli's tone of voice makes Tom ache, but Tom isn't really willing to share that. His stomach curls up with the gin and he runs his fingertips over his forehead a little shakily. He wants to say he doesn't expect Orlando to be over Jason immediately, and he wants to add that he only wishes Orlando wouldn't try to sugar-coat the whole thing. But he guesses they've both been doing that.

_It's different,_ he sighs inwardly. _I'm not the one with the emotional hangups._

And then he has to laugh at himself. It's an ugly sound.

Tom's laughter does what his anger couldn't do and Orlando is off the couch suddenly, his fist making a swift arc before it connects fairly hard with Tom's jaw. "Fuck you! How dare you fucking laugh at me!"

There's a bright, slow-motion flash of pain; Tom's teeth crack together jarringly, and he reels back, staggering and very nearly falling over. The grin dies on his face, frozen and somehow unchanging but mutated into a grimace of shock and pain.

He pulls in a breath to speak, but nothing will come. More than anything else, Tom is shocked. Shocked completely paralyzed.

_I wasn't--_ he thinks, loudly, but words aren't going to come out of his mouth. He feels the sting of tears and knows he's about to do the worst thing a primary-grader can do after he's been struck, and the best thing he could manage right now would be to get out. It hurts. Not his jaw; fuck that. It hurts that Orlando would think that Tom could even consider laughing at him. After everything.

Finally, the stiff grin melts, and Tom realizes distantly he's stumbling toward the patio door. Out. Away.

"Yeah," Orlando says bitterly. He for the gin bottle. "Fucking walk away." He takes a long drink. "I'll be packing my fucking things because I can tell I've outstayed my fucking welcome. Thanks for fucking me all better. Give yourself a medal while you're out there." He tilts the bottle up once more and heads for the back of the flat.

He pauses at the beginning of the hallway and looks back. "Don't know why," he says, a nasty little touch of scorn in his voice, "I expected you to be any better than Jason or Ewan."

Tom freezes, a hand on the sliding door handle, and tips his head down, listening, taking it. With those last words, his face crumples, and he holds himself there, makes himself stay. His knuckles are white, fingers wrapped around the handle, nails digging into his palm.

"I was laughing at myself," he hitches out, not really caring that it's utterly apparent he's in tears, "because I've fucking fallen in love." He doesn't even know, now, if Orlando's still standing there behind him. Maybe he didn't want Orlando to hear that after all. He doesn't know. He tugs the door open and goes outside to lie down in the grass and let his tears slide down his temples into it.

Orlando was poised to move back down the hall, but at the first sound out of Tom's mouth, he pauses and waits, breath tight in his chest. When he hears what Tom says, he's paralyzed, one hand frozen halfway to the doorframe.

"You..." he whispers softly as Tom leaves the flat. "You...."

Slowly, almost dragging his feet like a reluctant child, he walks out to the yard, gazing down at Tom in shock before sitting next to him. He's close enough to touch Tom but he doesn't. "I ... I didn't know."

Tom doesn't say anything, just stares at the sky. The stars are coming out. He wants to be in the middle of one, right now. Right fucking now. His jaw is throbbing--yeah, now it hurts--and he thinks he bit his tongue, because he tastes blood. He cries silently. Just staring at the sky. Of course Orlando didn't know. Of course he didn't. Tom never said, Orli never asked, and Jason hangs between them like a thick tapestry. They can feel each other through him, but only when they work really hard at it.

It hurts, being loved, Orlando suddenly knows. It hurts because every thing he ever did, every cruel, petty or thoughtless thing is suddenly magnified by this new knowledge. Dimly he wonders how Jason did it; how he could be so cruel knowing how it could cut someone so deeply. Did he ever feel this raw over Orlando? This guilty.

_You know the answer to that._

Pushing all of that aside, Orlando is silent as he bends and kisses Tom's jaw. "I'm sorry," he says. "For everything...." He moves up and kisses the tears as they fall from Tom's eye. "I'm so sorry...."

Tom doesn't want Orlando to be sorry. He just wants Orlando to be in love back. Tom's pretty resigned to the fact that that's not going to happen, though. Jason's got too much of him. And the stupidest line comes to him then, one Orlando would know but definitely not appreciate right now: "The Ring has one Master, and he does not share power."

No, he doesn't. If it were years down the road and Tom and Orlando were mature enough to laugh about old pain, it would be funny. Jason as Sauron, haha. Tom doesn't laugh, this time. He turns toward Orlando, curls into him, and kisses him.

Kissing is easier than saying anything at this point. Orlando's not sure what he feels but if kissing is what Tom wants, if it's what he needs then he can do that.

He runs his fingers through Tom's hair and kisses him again, trying to say "I'm sorry" without saying it.

Tom cups a hand around the back of Orlando's neck, moaning into his mouth. It feels different, now. It's warm and sweet, but Tom doesn't want anything to change. That's the problem with love and being in it, it changes shite till you don't know fuck-all about which end is up. He growls in the back of his throat, shoving at Orlando, crawling over him. Nothing should change. Nothing's _going_ to, dammit. He lunges down and bites Orlando's throat sharply, then shifts an inch and bites again. Harder.

Orlando moans and tilts his head back. Oh this is good, this isn't thinking or having emotional feelings that don't make sense. This is Tom hurting him and it's fucking good. "Please ... more" he gasps.

"Shut up," Tom whispers against Orli's throat. "You fucking cold-cocked me, you're definitely gonna pay for that." He bites Orlando again in a slightly different place--_way to make him pay,_ he snorts inwardly as Orlando gasps and writhes some more--and reaches down between Orlando's legs to squeeze his cock roughly through his jeans.

"Oh fuck yeah," Orlando gasps. This is what he can give Tom, it's all he can give Tom right now. "Punish me," he moans, meaning it more than he can say. "Hurt me...."

Tom grits his teeth and bites Orlando again, pinching a tiny amount of skin in his teeth and gnawing on it _hard._ He wants Orlando to feel this for the rest of the bloody week. He wants Orlando marked. What he really wants is to get something back out of today, a little revenge, maybe, for Orli not loving him--cos it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out.

Or maybe he just wants revenge because he fell in love in the first place.

Tom curls a hand around Orli's throat, just so he can feel it, and presses. "Open your pants and get them out of the way," he orders tightly, "and then do mine."

_Yes ... oh God yes._ Tom's hand at his throat is like some sort of absolution, cleansing Orlando of Ewan's earlier touch. He wonders if Tom could do that -- if Tom _has_ been doing that to him all along; exorcising Ewan and Jason from him.

He unbuttons his jeans and shoves them and his boxers down quickly, before going for Tom's jeans and doing the same. "Want you ... fucking need you," he mutters, knowing that those aren't the right words. _Won't ... can't lie to Tom about this._

Steadfastly refusing to think of wanting or needing--better not to think at all, really--Tom braces on his elbow, that hand still over Orlando's throat. He raises his other hand to shove three fingers into Orlando's mouth.

"You know the drill," he hisses.

Greedily, Orlando sucks the fingers into his mouth, using his tongue and a little bit of his teeth and doing his best to not only get them wet but to make it as good for Tom as he can. He looks steadily into Tom's eyes, hoping Tom can read something positive in his stare.

Tom watches hungrily, grinding his cock down into Orlando's stomach. Finally, he loses patience, tugging his fingers away from Orlando and kneeling up.

"Turn over," he rasps out, and the instant Orlando scrambles to his knees, Tom is shoving all three fingers into him, reaching, digging in, then finding that spot and rubbing it brutally hard.

"Shit!" It hurts and it's a fucking good hurt; Tom's being almost casually brutal in a way he hasn't before and if Orlando thought before that he missed it, he now _knows_. "God ... oh please ... c'mon please, Tom!"

Tom twists his hand, fucking Orlando with it. He shoves his other hand up under the back of Orli's shirt and rakes his nails down Orli's spine sharply.

"You want to hurt, huh?" he breathes. "You want punishment?" And then Tom yanks his fingers free of Orlando's body and positions himself. Orlando's nearly dry. Spit is never enough. Tom doesn't care. "This is gonna hurt, alright."

"I want it to hurt," Orlando says, bracing himself for the pain. "For you. Want to hurt for _you_ Tom." It's still not enough but, again, it's all he has to give right now.

Groaning softly behind clenched teeth, Tom pushes into Orli slowly, dragging and catching all the way in. No, spit is never enough, but _fuck_ it's tight, and hot, and once he gets inside he just stays there, moaning. He shoves hard on Orli's back and gets him down into the grass, knees and shoulders. Then he starts to move. Not thrusting, not really. Just grinding forward, pulling back only enough to get a little friction on Orli's prostate, and then slamming forward again.

Rubbing his cheek against the grass a little when Tom pushes him down, Orlando whimpers. It's hard not to try and pull away, because it really fucking does hurt, but the endorphins will kick in any minute now and even if they don't ... it's still brilliant.

"Fuck me ... hurt me, Tom ... God yes, like that ... please...." He babbling but all the words mean the same thing anyway.

_More._

That whimper is... God. It's _good,_ knowing Tom's really got him this time, really fucking hurting him. It twists at Tom's stomach, and suddenly he wonders if this puts him on the same level as Jason--and then that gets him wondering if Orlando is walking that line between saying what he thinks Tom wants to hear and loving this because Jason did shite like this all the time. Tom lets out a noise that sounds like a sob, hating the hold fucking Jason has on _both_ of them, now.

He bends down to bite Orlando's back sharply through his shirt and starts fucking him harder. It's starting. He fights it: he doesn't want to come, not yet. Orlando hasn't hurt enough.

Still whimpering -- louder now, Orlando forces himself to push back. It hurts so bad that he's probably going to bleed before it's done. _God I hope so._

The best punishment Tom can imagine would be for him to come, shove Orlando into the grass and walk away. Use him and leave him out here. That would be harsh discipline. Tom considers it a moment, reveling in the cruelty of it, the hungry, demanding nature of it, and it sends him over. With a cry, he grips Orlando's hips tightly and slams home, holding close, shuddering as the orgasm spirals through him hard.

Panting, he pulls out, then shoves Orlando over onto his side, then his back.

_I can learn to be cruel,_ he thinks, _but I'm _not_ Jason._ And he ducks down, digging his nails into Orli's hips, forcing him to remain still, and sucks his cock down in one long gulp.

Orlando does in fact expect Tom to get up and leave him after he comes. It's not that Tom's done it before or that it's a likely thing, just that this is punishment -- at least as far as Orlando's concerned -- and he deserves anything Tom does.

When Tom turns him over and goes down on him, Orlando almost cries again. Because the punishment is over and things are, if not OK again, then back to some semblance of what passes for normal in their lives.

"Thank you ... oh God thank you...." he moans.

Tom's mouth pumps almost viciously. His teeth and tongue slide over Orli's cock and he moans and drags his nails over Orlando's flanks. Then, as an afterthought, he starts to pinch Orli roughly, inside his thighs, at the juncture of leg and ass, wherever he can reach.

The pinching, the sweet sharp shock of it, is what finally pushes Orlando almost to the edge. "Please ... Tom ... please?"

Tom raises his head, a little startled. He never really allowed it, but he's grown almost used to Orlando calling him "Sir." Now that that's not there, Tom isn't sure what to think.

_Don't think,_ he orders himself sharply, and says, "Yeah. Come." He ducks back down again, pinching harder and dragging his teeth along the underside of Orli's cock as he sucks.

With a strangled scream, Orlando comes, fighting not to buck his hips too hard. By the time it's over he's gasping for air on the grass, sure he must look like a fish after it's been netted and tossed on the bank of a stream.

Tom downs it, then pulls off slowly, leaving Orlando there on his back, trousers still around his thighs. He jerks up his own pants and then falls over beside Orli onto his back, staring at the moon.

"Come here," he mutters, and opens one arm.

Orlando hauls his jeans up and moves into Tom's arms. "I'm," he begins and then remembers that Tom doesn't want to hear that from him. "I ... I won't lie to you," he says instead. If he can't give Tom his love, then Tom deserves the one thing he's always seemed to drag out of Orli anyway. The truth.

There's really nothing to be done but brace himself and take it, Tom figures. "You're what?" he asks, still staring at the sky. He no longer wants to be inside a star, but out there somewhere might be nice.

"Huh?" Orli asks, not sure he's followed. "Oh ... I was going to say I'm sorry but you don't want to hear that. I am. I never meant to hurt you or to be ... well I'm fucking thoughtless and I'm ... well I'm sorry."

"Knock it off," Tom mutters, but it's affectionate. He tugs Orli closer to him and closes his eyes, sighing. "You didn't know. It's okay."

Orlando snuggles up and rests his head in the curve of Tom's shoulder blade. "I'm trying," he says. "I wish I could just ... wish it all better. Forget him."

"I know," Tom murmurs, wrapping Orli up in his arms. His heart's no longer racing, and he's steadier now, more stable. "I know you do."

"I wouldn't go back to him," Orlando says and knows it for the truth. "I might miss him and maybe I still even ... but I don't want to go back to that."

_And maybe that will change when I see him again, but for now ... it is true._

"Don't," Tom murmurs, and presses an absent kiss into Orlando's hair. "You don't have to explain it to me, alright? It's okay."

"OK," Orlando replies quietly. He nuzzles into Tom's shoulder and kisses at the warm skin of the other man's neck. He's used to the way Tom smells now and it's comforting to be here, smelling sweat and sex and the grass and the evening and that something that makes Tom smell different from anyone else.

They should go in; the grass is getting clammy, and Tom's back already aches. But he doesn't want to move. He tips his head a little, resting his cheek on Orli's forehead, and sighs.

Later. They can move later.


	11. Claimed

Ever since the night Orlando made Tom say that--okay, Orlando didn't make him say it, but it had to be said--well, maybe not that either, but Tom needed it out--Tom's been looking for a way to claim Orlando as his. He thinks he's got it. Because there has to be something that will cement this, somehow. Something to make Orlando believe he's not going to do weird shit like disappear or throw him out.

_There's got to be some way for him to believe I'm _nothing_ like Jason._ Because ever since that night, Tom has worried. He's fretted that he really isn't any better than Jason or Ewan. That's not like him. He doesn't like it at all. Maybe there is an element of revenge to this--or gloating, one of the two. But whenever he gets into it this far, thinking about it, he always ends up mentally throwing up his hands, going "Fuck it," and plopping down in front of the telly with the video games Orli bought. And then he sucks at those; Orli at least crashes his skaters while he's doing something cool. So then Tom just ends up watching Orli play.

But the pick-ups are going to happen soon, and... well, alright, it _is_ gloating. He wants something Orlando will feel and remember when he sees Jason. He wants to give Orli something to distract himself with.

_Bugger all, I just want him to be mine. To _think_ of himself as mine._ Probably the wrong reason to mark a boy. Tom doesn't care.

"Orlando," he calls, late one evening. "Come out to the patio, will you?"

Orlando has been trying not to think about what Tom said that night. He's been moderately successful, simply because he really doesn't know what to do about it.

He doesn't love Tom but he finds that he doesn't want to hurt him and so he's been consciously trying to do things Tom likes. Or more to the point, he's trying to not do things that annoy Tom.

And so he's been playing a lot of video games in addition to doing the shopping and just hanging out with Tom. The NIN remains in his personal disc player but he hasn't listened to it very much at all, nor has he actually watched any of the DVDs he bought that day.

He still thinks about Jason some, trying to understand what happened to the uncompromising top to make him into someone who let Ewan come on him without protest. And yes, there are times when he still misses that almost casual brutality; Tom doesn't do humiliation much and Orlando wonders if you can humiliate someone you love or if that only comes out of contempt as it seemed to with Jason. He tries not to wonder at what it says about him that he not only got of on it but fell in love with the man who did it.

When Tom calls him outside he flips the game -- one of the car race games this time -- off and heads to the patio. "Hey, what's up?"

On the patio, Tom has laid out a lounge chair opened flat, a small table with a towel and a bottle of scotch on it, and a very wicked-looking dagger. Not a huge one, but sharp and slender. Tom knows it'll cut through skin like butter.

Tom stands by the table and folds his arms over his chest. He pulls in a slow breath and then looks Orli over. "Get undressed and lie down on your back," he says, without preamble.

Shivering a little, more because he likes it when Tom gives him orders than because of the temperature -- actually it's quite nice out this evening -- Orlando quickly strips and lies down on the lounge chair.

He can't help glancing over at the knife wondering if Tom's got it out just to mess with his head or if he's going to use it.

Tom marks the look, but says nothing. He throws one leg over Orli and sits, straddling his hips, pressing down on Orlando's naked skin, cock and all, and grinding a little, knowing how intense the friction from his jeans must feel.

"I'm gonna mark you," Tom tells him in a low growl. He wants Orlando to be ready, but he wants the shock value there, too. He wants the moon coming up on Orlando bleeding--really, that's what's driven the whole idea behind this scene--and to drive that shock value home, he does something he's never done: he mentions that name.

"I'm gonna give you something to think about when pickups start and you see Jason standing there. Something you can feel." And then Tom does something else he's never done: he feels the possessiveness that comes not out of jealousy, but ownership.

"I'm gonna mark you as mine, Orlando." It's not a question, nor is it an offer. Tom's doing this. It's a fact.

"Oh ... uh ..." Orlando's voice trails off. "Yours?"

"Yeah." Tom's heart picks up speed; _What if I'm about to fuck this up resolutely now?_ But he's already started. There's no turning around. "I'm gonna put a scar on you. Right there." And he draws his initials just above Orlando's right hip with his fingertip.

Tom's. He never set out to belong to Tom just as he never set out to move in with him or sleep with him or any of it. It just happened. And he wonders if he should just go with it the way he's gone with everything else.

Swallowing hard, Orlando makes up his mind. Tom's not asking to be sure, but that doesn't matter. Tom deserves to know that Orli wants this; that he's giving his active consent as opposed to passively lying back and taking it.

"Please," he says, his voice steady. "I want you to do that."

Startled, Tom doesn't say anything for a minute or so; he expected resistance, sure, or for the reminder of Jason to send Orlando careening away from him again. He doesn't show that, though; what kind of top gives an order and then goes, _You do? Really??_

But he can't resist bending down and kissing Orlando, hard. It's all he can do to show the thing he can't say.

Now that he's agreed, it's all right to go passive and let Tom lead, and so Orlando yields under Tom's mouth, moaning a little. He wants this, _really_ fucking wants it.

It's strange; now that he's been so adamant in the giving of this directive, Tom feels good about it. Orlando. His. He supposes it's not the same as Orli throwing himself at Tom's feet the way he would with Jason, but Tom thinks maybe... maybe that'll come later. He bites Orlando's bottom lip sharply, then raises his head. It'll come later. He's managed to get in this far. That's got to be good for something.

He scoots down Orlando's body and levies two hard bites to his nipples, one after the other, quickly. "If you're going to be mine," he says quietly, "there're going to be some new rules."

Orlando yelps when Tom bites him, an almost happy sound. And then, when Tom talks about rules he goes quiet, listening hopefully. _Rules ... oh I like the sound of that._

"You don't come unless I give it to you. All your orgasms come from me, and only if I say, until I say otherwise. That's rule one. Rule two is if you want something, like sex or hurting or whatever, you ask me from your knees." He pauses, getting up and idly toying with the knife. The times Orlando has come to Tom's door and knocked from the floor have affected Tom more than he realized. The idea of Orlando asking for something like a beating, or to come, from his knees--Tom has to adjust himself in his pants.

Eyes wide, Orlando nods. He wishes there was some way for him to show how much this means and then an idea comes to him. "Is it OK if I get up for a moment?"

"Yeah," Tom replies, more curious than anything else.

Orlando slides off the lounge chair and looks Tom in the eye for a moment before dropping to his knees. "Please," he says. "Can I call you Sir? Because I want to, not because I'm mistaking you for anyone else."

Tom swallows, staring down at Orlando. He feels decidedly queasy right now, but it is not, _not_, a bad feeling.

"Yes," he breathes, reaching down to cup Orlando's cheek in his hand. "You can call me Sir. When it suits. None of that when I learn to kick your arse at Tony Hawk, though." He bites the inside of his cheek, but there's no help for it. He's grinning. He's _happy._

_Wow, I made him smile like that?_ Orlando can't help the impudent grin that comes to his own face, although he bites back the sarcastic remark.

"Thank you," he says, meaning it. "Please Sir, hurt me? Mark me?"

_Christ,_ Tom thinks. He closes his eyes and just lets the word rocket around in his head for a second, and then he nods. "Yeah. Get back up there, just like you were."

Moving as gracefully as he can, Orlando slides back into the chair and smiles up at Tom.

Tom can't really seem to stop grinning, now. He doesn't really think he's seen Orlando smile like that--not sober, anyway, and not when Tom isn't clowning, or Orli hasn't beaten some level or another in a game. It looks good. It looks so good, Tom has the urge to kiss that smile and then just break that little chaise lounge while frantically fucking Orlando. But no. Marking first. Fucking after. And then, if he's lucky, probably more fucking after.

"Grab the sides of the chair, there," he says quietly, and then makes a little face at himself as he remembers something. "Crap. Right back." He disappears into the house.

Orlando obeys instantly, wondering how much this is going to hurt and what the mark will look like. He's oddly calm; his normally restless body seems to have decided that this moment calls for stillness.

It's good to wait here because Tom ... because his Sir told him to. Orlando sighs happily and stares up at the few stars he can see over the city lights.

Tom comes back out with two lengths of nylon climbing ribbon. He got the idea hearing a story of Orlando doing his adventuresome stuff in New Zealand, and if it can hold up a human body slinging itself to a cliff face, then it can hold Orlando to a chair while Tom cuts on him. He doesn't say anything; he just slips one end of a ribbon around the frame of the chair and ties Orli's wrist to it securely, meeting Orlando's eyes silently, and then he does the other wrist as well. Then he leans over to the little table and takes up the knife. He doesn't really know why it's taken him so long to get the hang of topping Orlando, but he has a sneaking suspicion it'll get a whole hell of a lot easier after this.

Orlando tugs at the strapping a little and then relaxes. He belongs to Tom now; he has rules and now Tom has tied him down and is going to hurt him, mark him even. _If he enjoys this, it'll be perfect._

Tom smiles down at Orli a little wickedly as he settles onto Orlando's thighs again. He is tucked just barely behind Orli's cock, not touching it, just sitting comfortably and paying it no mind. He spins the knife in his hand and then slides the flat of it across Orlando's collarbone, over his nipples, down along his sternum, his index finger extended along the blade.

"That's going to be cutting into you soon," he whispers, holding the blade up. "It's going to have your blood on it. And then I'm going to find some other way to hurt you."

"Please," Orlando whispers. "Please Sir...." He's desperate now, hungry for it.

Without another word, Tom brings the blade down and frames that place he's going to cut in the L of his index finger and thumb of his free hand. Then he turns the blade in his right hand, pointing it downward, holding it like a pencil. He glances up at Orlando, then down at the skin between his fingers again. Then he begins to cut.

It's like ice at first, that same cold, burny sensation which then turns into thin lines of pain, and Orlando controls his shiver, not wanting to move and ruin the design. But Tom needs to know that this hurts, that Orli is lying here hurting for him.

"Hurts, Sir," Orli whispers. "Feels ... brilliant."

Smiling faintly, Tom keeps working. It's a stylized set of his initials, like scrollwork, with Orlando's inside them, a little between them, overlapping like a monogram, smaller than Tom's. It takes a while; he's working very slowly. After long moments, he takes the knife blade up and licks the blood from the tip of it.

Orlando can't see what Tom is doing, but that doesn't matter. He can feel it and it's starting to feel incredible as the endorphins kick in. What's of even more interest to him, however is the look of extreme concentration on Toms face.

And then Tom puts the knife to his mouth and it's such a powerful image that Orlando can't help moaning. "Oh God...."

Tom leans over and takes up the cloth on the table and then presses it carefully to the bloody monogram. Then he holds it up for Orlando to see: a not-too-shabby copy of the blood he's drawn. Then he lays that on Orlando's chest and grabs the scotch. He opens the bottle and leans forward, curling Orli up with a hand at the back of his neck, and holds the scotch down there for him to drink.

In spite of the fact that not only does Orlando not like scotch, but also that it's associated in his mind with Jason, he drinks anyway, is mind still mostly on the sight of the cloth tom held up.

Their initials in his blood done by Tom. He hopes his eyes can convey his gratitude because the words just aren't there.

Tom can't remember how he knows Jason was the scotch drinker in that pair, but he does. It doesn't matter; he just wants to try to supplant that memory with something this huge. He'll never bother again, really. Orlando drinking scotch has nothing to do with anything after tonight.

Raising the bottle to his own lips, Tom pauses to murmur, eyes on Orli, "You're amazing, you know that?" And then he drinks. Quickly, swallowing some but holding as much in his mouth as he can and still not waste it, he bends down to lick at the cuts with the scotch still on his tongue.

"Oh fuck!" If the knife was like ice on his skin, this is like acid. Orlando expects to see smoke rising from his skin as Tom's tongue passes over the knife marks. "Oh God ... hurts ... fucking hurts..." He hopes Tom will hear how much he likes it, hopes that his words won't scare Tom away.

Tom's tongue pauses briefly at Orlando's moan, but even though these noises are not quite the same as the ones he usually makes, they're still very enthusiastic. Pleased, Tom takes another swig of scotch and follows the lines of the cut again with the tip of his tongue, and then he just shifts a bit and swallows Orli's cock down suddenly, sucking hard.

"Jesus!" Orlando shouts. he'd expected more pain, not the sudden wet heat of Tom's mouth. _Not,_ he thinks dazedly, that I mind much. Or at all really.

Tom would grin if his mouth weren't otherwise occupied. He plays for a moment, running his tongue up and down the shaft and over the head, and then it tips his head up, grabs the scotch bottle, drinks more, and swishes some around in his mouth so he can go back to licking at the cuts.

"Trying to ... fucking kill me...." Orlando blurts out. That's how it feels at least, as the acid burn returns. In a momentary flight of fancy, Orli finds himself imagining that Tom could burn him with his tongue alone, that Tom could lick patterns on his skin without the help of the knife.

"Now what would be the good of that?" Tom murmurs, grinning, and plants his lips at the base of Orli's cock, turned sideways, and starts to nibble his way up, as though eating an ear of corn.

"God Tom ... please ... can't take much more..." Orlando stutters. He probably can, he thinks. In fact he's hoping Tom will tell him he has no choice; not only does he want more, but he wants to be forced into it.

"Yes you can," Tom growls. "You belong to me, starting tonight. You'll take it till I'm done giving it to you." It's almost like the cuts give Tom some kind of power he didn't have, and a way into Orlando's thoughts, into what he needs. Tom doesn't need to be beating Orlando senseless or raping him through the lounge or flinging him around by the throat; there are plenty of things he can do that are slow, and easy, and hurt like fuck.

And this time he doesn't bother putting the scotch in his mouth first; he just splashes it over the cuts, reveling in Orlando's sharp sounds before licking the scotch right from Orlando's skin.

Buoyed up by Tom's words, Orlando takes the sudden flare of bright pain on his hip well, screaming hoarsely and then relaxing back against the lounge, ready to take whatever Tom -- _my Owner, my Sir_ \-- wants him to take. "Please," he moans, over and over. "Please please please...."

"What're you begging for?" Tom breathes, raising his head again. "You want me to stop? Or you want me to keep going?" He blows cool air over the cuts. "If you can make up your mind--" and he chuckles-- "I'll give you whatever you want."

"Want ... want what _you_ ... want Sir," Orlando says, panting.

That's exactly what Tom expected to hear. "Good answer," he whispers, and then just goes back to what he was doing, alternating the burning, stinging alcoholic pain with slow, teasing, intense suction, or scrapes of teeth, or wide swipes of tongue, over Orlando's cock. He takes his time, steeped in Orlando's hungry, desperate noises and his own sense of ownership.

Thought vanishes, words vanish, time vanishes, everything vanishes except the need and the pain and everything Tom is giving him. Orlando is nothing but nerves now, nerves that can't distinguish between pleasure and pain any more. He thinks he's screaming, but it's distant enough that maybe it's only happening in his head. Not that it matters, if Tom wants him to scream aloud ... he'll scream aloud.

Tom has lost his sense of time; eventually, he realizes his need to come has grown quite large. He pulls his pants down just as far as necessary, goes through the rudimentary preparation for himself and then leans over Orlando, forearm braced on the flimsy lounge chair. "Gonna fuck you now," he breathes. "Better be ready." He knows Orlando's probably past giving him an answer and finds, surprisingly, he doesn't care--and he knows neither will Orlando, when it's all said and done.

"Please..." Orlando manages to get out. He wants Tom desperately now, fucking _needs_ him.

Positioning himself quickly, Tom bends down and sinks his teeth into Orlando's throat as he thrusts in to the hilt. Right off, he's driving in, hard, fast, groaning brokenly into Orlando's neck.

Unable to speak, wrapping his legs around Tom is all Orlando can do to show how much he needs this. He's screaming again and a strange little distant part of his mind is already gleefully counting over the marks and aches and hurts that he'll have after this is over.

"Shhh," Tom orders out of nowhere, covering Orlando's mouth with his and biting at his lips. He doesn't care about the neighbors; they're either used to occasional shrieking by now or they'll get used to it later. But this is so good, and Tom has this odd little idea that if Orlando can just contain everything for a while, that much more will come out in the orgasm. So Tom continues biting, swallowing Orlando's noises and fucking him all the harder.

Silence. It's always been next to impossible for Orlando to be silent during sex but now he gives it his all, grateful that Tom's mouth is there to help him out.

Orlando's trying so hard, and being so good, and Tom can't hold off any longer. Orlando's already shaking with the pounding, and somehow, as Tom's eyes squeeze shut involuntarily, he manages to grit out "Don't you come" before he's coming himself, one hand finding Orli's shoulder so he can shove in one more time, and then--just once more--and he collapses, panting, absently gnawing Orlando's collarbone.

_There's blood on my lip,_ Orlando thinks when he can finally think again. He's bitten his lip rather hard, his whole body aches in addition to the more specific aches from the cutting and the biting and the fucking, and he feels better than he has since....

No. He feels better than he ever has after sex. He wants to tell Tom that, let him know that he's the best Orlando's ever had, but his own insecurities nag at him.

"Was ... was I good?" he asks hesitantly, hoping Tom knows he's asking if he behaved and not about the quality of the sex.

Tom has to swallow a laugh, the question is so incredible. "You were fantastic, Orlando," he sighs out, and kisses Orlando again, making a startled, happy noise when he tastes the blood. He licks at that a moment, then raises his head. "You've earned the right to come however you want, now."

"Touch me, please Sir?" Orlando begs.

Tom grins, pleased, and shifts off of Orlando just enough to reach between them. "I think I'll leave you tied up, though. You like being tied up for me, don't you." He wraps his hand strongly around Orli's cock and starts to pump it slowly, watching. "God... you're a good boy."

"Love being tied up for you," Orlando gasps out. "Yours," he adds, just before the orgasm overwhelms him. Yours.

It's like being caught in the undertow after losing a really good wave -- scary and exciting and deadly --- and when it's over, Orlando is gasping for air, feeling as if he's been slammed hard on a rocky beach somewhere.

_Christ,_ Tom moans inwardly, staring, and as he pulls the last of the come out of Orli, he bends down to kiss him again, this time gently. Then he just stays there a little while, nuzzling Orli's cheek and his ear and the side of his neck, kissing him in between. He fumbles with the climbing ribbon around Orli's wrists, tugging at it with his come-covered hand, and then shifting to the other side to get that one, too. Then he just pulls Orlando into his arms, hugging him tightly.

"Mine," he whispers. It's an affectionate statement, a term of endearment--but there's an edge to it, too. They can talk about that later.

Orlando clings to Tom, shivering a little. "No one," he says, trying to find a way to make Tom know just how good this was. He turns so he can meet Tom's eyes. "_No one_ has ever made me feel like this. This good. This owned." He relaxes then, leaning into Tom's arms. "No one," he repeats softly

Tom swallows hard, staring. He can feel his eyes filling up, and he doesn't really care. He doesn't really know how much this means, but he knows it's a lot. A whole fucking lot. He cups Orli's head in his hand and tugs him close again.

"Good," he says simply. "Good. And no one else will."


	12. Sniping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Darkrose, who wrote Jason in this chapter.

Jason is in a pretty good mood when he arrives at the studio, all things considered. As he so often does, he shoves aside the thoughts of this morning and certain events that had occurred. Thinking about what Liam did to him, and why Jason had let him do it, isn't something he wants to explore too deeply right now. He's concentrating on the job, and on making sure that Ewan, at least, notices the marks.

_Thought you were going to fuck me over, you little shit. Well, I'm still with him and it's fucking good. Most of the time._

Tom feels a bit like a dolt, tottering around after Orlando like this, but he knows eventually Orli's going to run into Jason, and Ewan, and probably Liam as a by-product, and Tom'd rather let hell develop icicles before he lets Orli face that titanic fuckin trio alone. After that stunt Ewan pulled, Tom's sure Jason will be looking for Orli, just to make shite worse.

And there he is, Tom spits mentally, pulling in a slow breath. He can only hope Orlando hasn't seen him yet, and if he has, he hopes Orli's part of the shoot is done for today. This is going to fuck him up. Tom's already getting pissed at the whole bloody collective in advance for the patch-up work he's going to have to do on Orlando's sanity when this is all done.

Ewan's not around that Jason can see, but Tom Hardy is. Lovely. He's not sure what bug crawled up Hardy's arse, and he doesn't much care, but he has noticed that the younger man has been watching him over the past couple of days. And not a _"do I want to fuck him" look, either; more like, "do I want to kick his arse."_ Jason smirks. As far as he's concerned, Hardy's welcome to try.

The temptation is strong just to walk right up to Isaacs and demand to know exactly what he did to Orlando to turn him into the quivering boy who listens to too much Nine Inch Nails and still--even now, even though things are so much better, or were, till Ewan McDickhead decided he was going to play funny--defends Jason. Because of Jason, Tom dances on eggshells. Because of Jason, Tom has to decide on a routine basis whether he wants to shake Orlando blue, or cuddle him up and protect him. Because of Jason, Orlando will allow neither, and that's fucked up.

But also because of Jason, Tom doesn't need to be stirring up shit between himself and Orlando--so, much as he wants to, he's not going to go over there and confront the arsehole. No, he isn't. He's going to stay right here, looking around, fascinated by the layers of dirt and the running of lines and the whole process of a Ridley Scott production, Oh, fucking hell, he groans inwardly, and caves, heading straight for Isaacs, ready to get into it. More than ready. _Orlando'll just have to understand._

Jason is pretending to study his pages, but he's well aware of it when Hardy comes toward him. He doesn't look up. "Something I can do for you, Hardy?" he asks, voice soft and deceptively innocent.

Faltering only briefly, Tom steels his gaze. "I'm gonna ask you," he grinds out quietly, "to please call off your cronies, all right?" He lets his gaze drift off carelessly, as though he'd just as soon be doing laundry or scraping his dishes into the trash than be talking to Isaacs. "Orlando's had shite enough from all of you."

He can't help but inject the same sweetness into his own tone as he adds, "Please. As a favor to little me. Won't you?"

Jason blinks, surprised by the request. He looks up, meeting Hardy's eyes. "Even if I did owe you a favor for some reason, I have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't been anywhere near Bloom since Morocco." He narrows his eyes slightly. "And I have to confess that's I'm somewhat curious about why it matters to you." A nasty suspicion is beginning to form in Jason's mind, and he's startled by the intense stab of jealousy that accompanies it.

"You don't owe me a favor, mate," Tom replies coolly, resisting the urge to narrow his eyes. "I'm asking for one. Pay it forward, and all that shite." His voice all but drips icing-sugared sarcasm as he adds, "If you didn't know that McGregor ran to Orlando to tell him of your--" and his gaze flicks down to the bruises Isaacs seems so determined to flaunt-- "owner... then please, accept my apologies." Tom's expression hardens as he wonders at the games these blokes are playing at.

"As to why it matters to me," he adds softly, "I have a bit of a vested interest. I seem to be the only one about who actually, you know, gives a fuck about Orlando." He very nearly smiles in grim, smug, ugly satisfaction as Jason's expression changes subtly for the worse.

"You might even say," Tom adds, licking his lips in a way that can only be described as predatory, "we've become... quite... close."

"Good," says Jason, surprising himself. "He needs someone to tell him what to do, and I really wasn't interested." He shrugs. "I'd think it would be good for Orlando to know, though. Not his fault, is it, if I couldn't be his Master because..." _Because what? Because I need to be owned? Because if I did own someone, it would have to be a man like Liam, who'd challenge me, and who wouldn't give it up so easily?_

"As far as McGregor's concerned," he continues quickly, "I don't know what game he's playing, other than the fact that he likes to stir shit up. I wouldn't exactly call us friends."

For some reason, the coldness is a little surprising to Tom. "Fine," he bites out. "Then I'm finished here. Just a bit of closure. You understand." The sickly sweetness is back in Tom's voice, mostly because it tickles him to pull it out--and yet somehow, he doesn't think they are finished. Not yet.

Jason's smile doesn't come anywhere near his eyes. "I'm so glad." He glances back down at his pages. "If you haven't already, you might want to try choking him," he says, casually. "He loves that."

Tom smirks. He sees Isaacs now, really sees him. Just another insecure bastard with things to prove and people to prove them on. No skin off Tom's nose, really, and even though he doesn't believe for an instant the Bitch Collective isn't done fucking with Orlando, he knows he can handle it now. He can take care of it until Orlando can take care of it himself. He wonders what Isaacs would think of Orlando getting fucked with a knife handle, but decides he can keep that to himself; he's not here to play tit for tat, no matter how satisfying the look on Isaacs' face might be. Besides, that's a fine, fine image, and he doesn't want Isaacs getting any ideas.

"He told me," Tom answers after a moment. "Likes belts, too, yeah?" Tom flicks his hand dismissively and turns away. "Thanks for the advice, anyway."

Jason watches Hardy go. Not who I would have expected to pick Bloom up--_I wouldn't have thought he'd be the sort to play rough enough for the little elf boy._ Hardy and Bloom are much less of a problem for him at the moment than McGregor is, however.

_Fucker needs to learn how to keep his bloody mouth shut._ Jason doesn't really mind it getting around that Liam owns him, but he wants it to happen on his terms. Folding the script pages neatly, he gets up and goes in search of Ewan.


	13. Freefall

Tom hasn't been great company all night. He doesn't really want to be here, even if it was his idea. It's loud, and dark, and smoky, and he's sucking down cigarettes like mad, which keeps his hands distracted and keeps him from having to make too much eye contact. That bitch session with Isaacs really has him bothered, but he doesn't know how to mention it to Orlando without bringing the whole thing out again. And then there's the _I should've said ...._ that people put themselves through when they've had to deal with someone they can't stand.

_Should've said I marked him. Should've said he called me 'Sir.' Should've at least said--_

He cuts himself off, irritated, and has another sip of scotch.

Orlando's not really sure why Tom wanted to go here of all places. If Tom needed to drink in public, why not go to the pub or even a restaurant with a decent bar? And Tom's been silent all evening, just sitting there frowning and smoking cigarette after cigarette.

"All right," Orlando finally says, taking a long drink of his gin and tonic and rubbing one hand along his hip, where the cutting is. "What happened with Jason?" He's proud of himself for being able to say the name without hesitating or flinching.

Tom starts, covering badly by taking another sip of scotch. _Fuck, he saw._ He looks at Orlando in the dimness, trying to gauge his reaction.

"I told him to call Ewan off. Told him Ewan was digging shite up we didn't need dug up." His tone turns a little defensive. "I was nice about it."

"Oh," Orlando says. "Was he?" Because even Orlando knows how rare it is to use the words "Jason" and "nice" in the same sentence.

The question seems so out of place, and yet the answer is even more bizarre. "Yeah," Tom says distantly. "He was." He looks at Orlando and raises a hand. "Before you go thinking he's all reformed and crap, he wasn't exactly sweetness and light. But he didn't know anything about Ewan's shite, anyway."

"Oh," Orlando says again, feeling more than a little stupid. He's not sure what to say. Part of him wants to grill Tom mercilessly for every little detail of the conversation and another part of him doesn't want to know. And then there's the part.....

"Wish you didn't have to warn people away from me," he says a little sullenly. _God I hate being so fucking fragile._

The comment stings in a way Tom can't really account for. "I didn't have to," he counters, "I only--fuck. Yeah, it was for you, but it was for me, too. Fucking hurts, seeing you curl up on yourself like that." He sighs. "If you don't want me to do it anymore, I won't..." But then something strikes him, and he firms up his voice, looking Orlando square in the eye. "But if I own you, I have the right to protect what's mine, don't I?"

Orlando closes his mouth before he can say "oh" again, because three times in a row would be just plain fucking idiotic. So he settles for saying "Yes Sir," softly and squirming a bit because Tom's voice saying those words is more than enough to get him hard.

"That's what I thought," Tom mutters, but his mood is considerably better, now. _Eat that, Isaacs,_ he thinks, and looks at Orlando again, finishing his drink all at once. "Come on. We don't need to be here, this is lame." He stands and grabs Orlando's wrist and tugs him toward the side door. The door to the alley. And he gets an idea.

Any thought of Jason goes out of Orlando's head as he happily follows Tom out of the club and into the alley. _Is he gonna fuck me back here?_ Orlando sure as hell hopes so.

Tom shoves the door open and pulls Orli out, and then he shoves Orli roughly against a wall, closing on him immediately and gripping the bulge in his jeans hard. He's breath-close, staring into Orlando's eyes.

"What is it's got you so turned on now, slut?" Tom grins evilly. "Was it calling me 'Sir' again, or was it figuring I'd hurt you once we got out here?"

"Both Sir," Orlando answers right away, licking his lips and staring at Tom hungrily.

Tom's gaze drops down to Orlando's mouth. He leans in and kisses Orli hard, biting him sharply before pulling away to plant another good, hard bite on Orli's neck. His hand works Orli's cock restlessly through the denim, kneading hard, and he brings his other hand down to scratch over the place he cut.

Writhing against Tom's hand, Orlando moans loudly. "Fucking hurts," he whimpers and there's nothing in his voice that can even be remotely called a complaint. "Please ... please Sir...."

Tom takes a step back and grabs Orli's shoulder, spinning him around and shoving his chest into the brick, reaching around to undo Orli's trousers.

"You have something with you?" Tom asks harshly, meaning lube; he doesn't expect so. Orlando is... well, Orlando.

"Uh," Orlando replies, dimly glad he managed not to say "Oh." "Don't have any on me, Sir. But ... don't need it, do we?"

"Nope," Tom agrees readily. He shoves Orli's jeans down and then sets to undoing his own, dispensing with them and then spitting into his palm. "So tell me," he grunts almost conversationally as he strokes his hand over his cock and shoves Orlando into the wall with a solid push into him, "should I choke you now, or beat you when we get home, and then do it?" And just to compound things, he sinks his teeth into the back of Orlando's neck as he starts to fuck him--_My boy,_ he thinks hungrily--with hard, jerking thrusts.

Orlando is sure he's torn several of his already short nails by clawing at the brick wall he's being slammed into. "Hurts," he manages again in a strangled scream as Tom first moves into him. He can barely concentrate on Tom's words and when they finally do make some kind of sense, he has no idea how to answer.

"What .... whatever you ... want Sir," he finally gasps out, pushing back hard against Tom.

_Good answer,_Tom thinks, and decides he's going to save some for later--lots for later, actually--and just beat the boy when they get home. But now, Orlando shoving back onto him is too good to try to get words around, and Tom just gives up on talking. He wraps an arm around Orli's waist and holds him tightly, grinding in, barely pulling back enough to do more than just grind in again. He bites Orlando's neck again and reaches up under the shirt to twist a nipple roughly.

_This is dirty,_ Orlando thinks. _Dirty and nasty and so fucking hot._ "Yeah," he moans. "Please ... fucking use me ... hurt me..."

_Use me..._ Orlando's always saying that, and Tom seldom really takes him up on it, but it's just the thing right now. He groans shakily, shuddering as he comes, nails biting into Orli's skin. Then he pulls back abruptly, standing there with his hands on Orli's hips, trying to catch his breath for a moment.

"You don't come," he grits out, "till I'm done with you." And he spins Orli around again and yanks up his pants, just with it enough to understand Orli's faculties won't really come back till sometime tomorrow early afternoon, if Tom does his job right. He fastens Orli's jeans and belt and then grips his hair firmly, forcing eye contact. "You can walk. Right?"

"I ... yes, Sir," Orlando replies, blinking hard. His ass hurts; he's sticky, and he's so hard he can barely think. And it feels fucking fantastic. This is good; this is what he missed from before and like everything else, it's better with Tom than it ever was with Jason.

Tom runs his fingers through Orli's hair, then, mussing it a bit more than it already is, and smiles. "Come on, then, and we'll do you in properly." He loops an arm around Orli's waist, making them look, for all intents and purposes, like a couple of rowdy boys on a night out, giggling their way back to the car.

* * * *

The ride home was interminable, and getting Orli stripped and tied down seemed to take longer than it ever has. But now, there he is: Tom's personal work of art. Bruised in places, some fresh from the past couple of days, some fading. Cut in places, because once Orli had the mark, then making more cuts was easy, almost relaxing. Tom's learned the best way to come down out of a miserable day is to hurt Orlando like hell, and then fuck him through the furniture. Sometimes, when Orli's been particularly good, Tom rides him for a treat. But tonight's different. Tonight seems _bigger_ somehow.

Tom doesn't say anything as he finishes buckling Orlando's wrists to the headboard of the master bed, and he doesn't say anything while he finishes lubing up a large granite plug; mostly he's just content to let Orlando stew in his own juices for a while, as it were. But when he gets ready to insert the plug, he warns quietly, "This is big and cold," and then pushes it in, twisting it a little as it goes.

When he's finished seating the plug, Tom steps back to survey the scene: Orlando's on his knees, wrists cuffed firmly, blindfolded with a big, heavy plug in his ass. Oh, yes. This is going to be positively fucking _poetic_.

_Safe._ If anyone asked Orlando to use just one word describe how he feels right now it would have to be safe. Which is really rather absurd considering that he's tied, blindfolded and has just had a huge, cold plug stuffed up inside him. Not to mention that he knows Tom is about to seriously hurt him.

_I'm safe here with Tom._

"Please," he whimpers aloud. "Please, please, please...."

Tom takes up a strap, a thick, oiled black one, doubled-over and heavy. He snaps it, just for the satisfaction of hearing it pop and seeing Orlando jump. Then he swings it once in the air to hear it hum before bringing it down sharply across Orli's ass, right across the plug.

"Oh fuck," Orlando grunts. "Fucking hurts .... more please Sir ... more..." He's greedy for it, hungry for it the same way he's hungry when he's stoned, a sharp needy craving for more and more and more....

"Begging ... Sir," he manages to get out through sharp hunger that's making it impossible to think, let alone speak coherently.

So Tom does it again, drawing back, getting a good bit of momentum up. This time when the strap lands, the welts rise almost immediately, flushing an angry red.

"You could take this all night, couldn't you, boy?" Tom breathes, and even though he knows Orli can't--_no one_ could--he knows what Orli will say, and he wants to hear it.

"For you ... yes Sir," Orlando says after the yelp brought on by the second blow. He knows its a silly thing to promise but he'd be willing to try. For Tom. Because he belongs to Tom. "Yours," he adds. "Yours Sir."

Tom swallows hard at that, at the depth of Orlando's devotion to him, and wonders briefly if he's really earned it. It doesn't matter now, though; he's got it. He raises the strap again and brings it down, crossing the other welts with it as he strikes.

Orlando yells loudly as the strap lands. This is good, and suddenly he has an idea, but he's not sure if Tom wants input from him or not. Until now, he's been a passive participant, taking everything Tom gives him, but never making any kind of suggestions.

"Sir ... please. I...." And then his courage fails him and his voice trails off. _Maybe later,_ he thinks. _As long as he doesn't think that I'm criticizing him._

"Please what?" Tom asks, lowering the strap. "Tell me now, because this is about to get super serious." The fact that Orlando's speaking out has him curious, to say the least.

It's hard because Orlando can't exactly explain why he's asking for this; all he knows is that it is what he needs. "Please, gag me, Sir?"

And then it dawns on him. If he really seriously wants this to stop, Tom will stop. He knows that; trusts Tom that much. But gagged ... he'll have no choice, no recourse if it becomes too much. "Please Sir?"

Once again, Tom swallows, and this time he's all but tripping on himself to get the gag out of his box. It's an odd thing, kind of a thick bit gag, and he doesn't really know why Orlando wants it, but he _does_ know Orli will sound fucking fantastic screaming through it.

But before he straps it on, he gets one more thing out of the box: it's an inch-wide, plain black collar with a huge O-ring at the front of it and a thick silver buckle. He takes the blindfold off Orli and lets his eyes adjust, then holds the collar up for him to see.

"I'm not going to use a belt around your neck. I'm going to use this, and if it works, it'll become part of everything. Clear?"

"Oh God .. please..." Orlando would grovel if he weren't tied up; this is almost too good to be true. "Please ... you think I deserve that, Sir?"

"If I didn't," Tom says quietly, "I wouldn't've cut you in the first place." And now his chest aches, nearly, because Orlando's reactions are so stunning and perfect. He leans down and fixes the collar around Orli's neck snugly, and then he pushes the bit into Orli's mouth and secures that, as well. The last thing of all was the first to come off: the blindfold.

Abruptly, Tom realizes Orlando can't move, can't speak, can't even look at Tom... he has no way of making clear any boundaries Tom might cross.

_It doesn't matter. He's mine. I'm not going to hurt him more than he can take._ The answer seems disjointed, but somehow, it fits. Tom rests a hand on Orli's shoulder briefly, and that's all there is of a warning before the strap comes down again, and then there's a second's pause before it comes down again and Tom is setting up a brutal, steady rhythm.

Orlando clamps down hard on the mouthpiece of the gag and then screams through it. This is so much better than he expected and he knows its not just the presence of the gag, or the blindfold or that fucking huge plug that is making him feel so obscenely open.

It's the collar. Tom's collar is around his throat and he really is Tom's boy. As he keeps screaming, his tears begin to soak the blindfold. _So good ... so fucking good..._

Tom continues, and now his chest _is_ tight, hurting with his love for Orlando and his amazement at the trust Orli is showing him. The strap lands again and again, and when Tom finally stops, he's breathing quickly, rock-hard, and really quite jealous of that piece of stone buried in Orlando at the moment. Slowly, he tugs that free and sets it aside, then gets up on the bed behind Orlando, starving to fuck him again.

Sliding his knees further apart and arching his back a little more to present his arse is the only way Orlando can beg right now and he sure as hell hopes that Tom can see how much he wants to be fucked. He whimpers behind the gag, aching and empty and oh so fucking needy.

"Oh, God," Tom groans, and sinks home, quickly starting to fuck Orlando. He grips Orli's hips and drives forward and pulls back at once, and then he leans up and tugs warningly at the collar. "You still want to be gagged for this part?" he demands, madly trying to think of a way for Orlando to signal him if he _does_ and it ends up too much.

Orlando shakes his head. He hadn't thought about that, but he doesn't want to be gagged for this. He wants Tom to hear him struggling for breath, wants to be able to warn Tom if he gets too close to orgasm before Tom wants him to come.

Tom lets out a soft exhalation of relief and unfastens the gag, setting it aside. Then he starts to move, two fingers hooked in the back of the collar, holding Orlando's head up like some kind of ornamental steed. There's some slack to his hold, but not much. He's using the collar as leverage to fuck Orli with.

Orlando can breathe but it's not easy and if it were possible for him to get any harder, he would. As it is he moans and shoves back against Tom's thrusts as much as he can. Needing more. Wanting more.

This is, he realizes, jumping without a cord, diving without a chute. It's _falling_ at its most pure and he loves it.

It takes him a moment to realize that he's making an almost keening sound, a sort of eerie wordless plea. Even when he does realize it, he doesn't stop, hoping that Tom will be paying attention to the way his body is begging for this.

Tom _is_ paying attention, now more than he ever has, and he finally understands exactly how crucial this is to Orlando. He plants his knees a bit further apart and starts to slam in harder, faster, tightening his grip on the collar, twisting his fingers slightly.

"I want you to come when I do," Tom groans. It's not really what he means; he means he wants Orli to see lightning in his head and feel that hot-cold rush and the buzzing of so much pain and so little air, but he can't possibly voice all that.

Nodding once to signal his understanding of the order, Orlando hoards what little breath he can and then ... lets go. It's all up to Tom now and that's the way it should be.

Tom knows enough to loosen the collar just a bit, and oh, God, Orlando's taking it, all of it, so fucking well... the urge to reiterate what Orli can't return is so strong it's nearly overwhelming, but Tom squelches it down and fucks Orli faster, groaning raggedly as he gets closer.

It doesn't take long. Tom reaches under Orlando and grips his cock, letting the frantic movement of their fucking be the friction. Then he twists the collar again, taking it beyond "snug" and into "dangerous," groaning "_Now_" as he pitches forward, shoved into Orli almost painfully hard and tight as he comes, and comes, and fucking comes.

There's no air, and although that would usually be enough to make him panic, Orlando is too busy having the orgasm of his life. He doesn't care if the bright spots behind his eyes are from the intensity or the lack of air; doesn't care that he's wasting what little breath he has trying to scream because it feels so good.

All he cares about is the climax Tom's given him. It's all that matters now.

Almost whimpering, totally spent, Tom lets go of the collar. He slumps over Orli's back for a moment, too astounded to move. Finally he slides down, knowing he has to concern himself with getting Orlando unbound and unblindfolded again. He crawls to the head of the bed and gets to work on that, dispensing with the cuffs and then the blindfold, letting Orli slump to the mattress before curling up behind him, around him.

"My God," Tom whispers, pressing close against Orli's back, feeling the leftover heat from the strap, "my fucking God you're gorgeous."

Panting for air, Orlando all but collapses to the bed as soon as he can. "Oh God," he whispers. "God Sir that .... that was ... thank you." And just like that, he's crying, deep wrenching sobs that seem to tear their way out of his body. "It's ... OK..." he manages to say as he turns and clings to Tom.

Stunned even though he shouldn't be, Tom cradles Orlando, tugging a blanket up over them. There's nothing to say in times like this; Tom was never good at this part. He knows there's got to be _something_ right and reassuring, but Tom has never found it. He just holds Orlando and strokes his back, pressing kisses to his forehead until the words almost fall out on their own. "I love you. I love you."

The tears finally fade and Orlando still clings to Tom. "I ... I know you do," he says softly. "And Tom ... Sir. I ... want to love you. I just need time."

Tom nods, pulling back to look at Orli. He knew that; he doesn't know what made him think it wasn't true, or what convinced him Orlando couldn't love him. "I know," he whispers. "You've got it. Whatever you need." He feels the emotions settling in, making themselves at home, and he smiles.


	14. Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Darkrose, who wrote Jason in this chapter.

Orlando's part in the pick-ups are almost over. Ridley's told him that today is probably his last day and -- with a slightly pointed look that tells Orli that the astute director was not fooled back in the spring -- he's told Orlando that there's no real need for him on set.

And so, during the lunch break, Orlando screws up his courage and, waiting until Tom's nipped off to the loo, walks over to Jason, his stomach in knots.

Jason's not surprised to see Bloom heading in his direction. He's been expecting it--it was only a question of when the kid would get up the nerve. Looking over and catching Bloom's eye, Jason jerks his head toward the door. He'd rather not have this conversation where Hardy or McGregor could hear.

Taking a deep breath and glancing over his shoulder to make sure Tom isn't around, Orli follows Jason out the door. There's a small back alley way which is -- _Thank God_ \-- empty of anyone but themselves.

"Uh ... hi," Orlando says, feeling completely lame. Jason looks ... very different, and it's not just the collar around his neck or the visible bite marks above the band of leather and metal. Orli can't quite put his finger on it but it bothers him a little. His hand drops to rub lightly at the still healing cut on his hip.

_I'm Tom's boy now,_ he thinks, taking a great deal of comfort from the thought.

"So, is this the part where you tell me what a rat bastard I am? Because I went through this with Hardy already, but I suppose it's only fair for you to get a shot in." Jason lights a cigarette, trying hard to look completely unphased.

"Did it ever hurt?" Orli surprises himself by asking. "Knowing that I loved you and that you couldn't give me that back?"

"I..." _Fuck._ Jason takes a long drag off his cigarette. _I didn't used to smoke regularly; not before Liam._ "I just didn't get it. I mean, I thought I was pretty clear about what I was looking for. I don't do that sappy shite." Jason wonders if the lie is as obvious to Bloom as it is to him. He hopes like hell that it isn't.

"Aren't collars part of that 'sappy shite?' Isn't doing something you hate just because you want to please someone -- your Master -- part of it?" Orlando's calm surprises him; if Jason had stayed angry, or come on strong, things would be different. "It was for me."

"It's not for me," Jason snaps. "That's not why I'm doing this."

"Why then?" Orlando asks, genuinely curious. "I thought you didn't ever bottom."

Jason looks away. "I didn't. But...I found out some stuff, after Morocco. I realized that I'd...well, I'd done some things I hadn't meant to, because I didn't know what I was doing. And it seemed like the only way to really learn it was to do it, so..." He shrugs.

"And was I ... what you did to me, one of the _things_ you didn't mean to do?" Orlando hates the desperation he can hear in his voice, the need for Jason to admit to fault.

"And if it is?" Jason glares at Orlando. "What difference does it make? Is it somehow going to make it better to know that I fucked you over because I didn't know what I was doing, instead of on purpose?"

Orlando looks away fighting the tears that want to come now. "I don't know," he mumbles. "I just want...." _To have meant something to you. To not be something you so obviously think of as a mistake._

He presses his hand hard against the cut on his hip, wincing slightly at the burst of pain as the heavy denim of his jeans rubs at the still raw wound.

Guilt, harsh and raw, twists Jason's stomach and forces out words he never thought he would say to anyone, least of all this silly little boy who cried so prettily in the cool desert nights.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

Only the memory of Tom's voice as he said "I love you," and the harsh pain of Tom's initials cut in Orlando's very flesh keeps Orli from offering Jason forgiveness and -- even worse -- a second chance. And even knowing that he belongs to someone else now, someone who hurts him so perfectly and loves him even when he can't return that love ... even knowing all that, it's still hard to summon up any real anger directed at Jason.

But Orlando does manages to summon it and when it comes to him, it's huge.

"Sorry? You're fucking sorry?" he asks his voice deceptively soft. "I'll say you're sorry all right. I feel sorry for Neeson having to put up with your shit." And then, with the elf-like swiftness trained into him during those long lovely months in New Zealand, he steps in close and backhands Jason as hard as he can.

Retreating equally swiftly, he glares at the man he once thought he'd love forever. "Take your fucking _sorry_ and ram it up your fucking arse."

His eyes never leaving Orlando's, Jason lifts his hand and wipes his mouth.

"You got that one for free," he says, his voice ice cold. "I wouldn't advise trying it again." He shoves off the wall, drops his cigarette and pushes past Orlando to head inside.

Stepping aside to give Jason plenty of room, Orlando falls to his knees after Jason goes back into the studio. Doubling over until his head almost touches the pavement of the alley, he lets the tears come until he's sobbing, almost choking on his grief.


	15. Aftermath

Tom's had his little fit with Ewan and feels better for it. He supposes nothing got resolved, not like it did when he had it out with Jason; Ewan's one of those who's harder to crack, and Jason's looking pretty soft in comparison. McGregor's got a shady side to him that's... well. More _evil_ than Jason is. Oh well; fuck it. The pickups are almost done, and Tom's ready for them to be. He wants his time back, wants to head on to something else--this Star Trek thing, maybe.

He heads out a back door for a smoke, deep in thought, and is stunned, actually _shocked_ to see Orlando there, folded over on the asphalt.

"Fuck," Tom gasps, "Orlando?" He goes over, crouching down and laying a hand on Orli's shoulder.

Orlando's face, when he lifts it to stare at Tom, is stained with tears. More slide down his cheeks as he reaches out and clings to his lover, sobbing hard.

"Jesus..." Tom grabs Orli, holding him, confused but figuring it's either Ewan--_the prick_\--or Jason--_the fucker_\--who did this to him. "What the fuck? What--Orlando, Christ, what happened?" _Who do I need to kill?_

"He ... Jason said..." Orlando stammers out. "He said ... he was sorry ... and I ... hit him...."

Tom figures he has to rein in about six emotions at once that are all inappropriate. Orli would not dig it right now to hear, "Jesus _fuck_ that's _brilliant!_" or "Could you go back in there and pop Ewan one, too, there's a good boy." He tugs Orli closer and sits on the ground, trying to wrap his brain seriously around how this must feel.

"What made you--" he starts, and then frowns, and hangs on one thing. "He said he was _sorry?_"

Nodding against Tom's chest, Orlando takes several deep breaths before gaining enough composure to reply. "Yeah. Said he fucked me over because he didn't know what he was doing. Said that's why he's with Neeson."

Thinking back to the odd look on Jason's face, Orli frowns thoughtfully but says nothing more. It's good to be in Tom's arms like this. Good and safe.

It's probably not a good time for Tom to remark that he figured as much, and that he hopes Neeson fucks Jason over like Jason fucked Orlando. No; that's uncool. He sighs and strokes Orli's hair, floundering for a moment for words.

"Look," he says at last. "We're about done here. Tell me what you want to do. Should we go get a bottle and we can sit and drink till we're stupid, or should we go back to the flat and I can tie you down and shag you silly--?" And then he catches himself and realizes it's up to him, even though Orlando's distraught. _Especially_ because Orlando's distraught.

"Alright," Tom amends. "Cross that out, I'm going to beat the living fuck out of you, and then I'm going to shag you silly, and then we'll see about some dinner. There's a new Spanish place up the way." And, having spoken, he kisses Orlando on the forehead and then rises, holding a hand down for Orlando to take.

"Yes Sir."

Taking Tom's hand, Orlando climbs to his feet. "Can we please go round the building?" he asks, not wanting everyone and their assistants to see that he's been crying.

"Of course, yeah." Tom wraps an arm around Orli's waist, hiding a mad, terribly vicious grin at the vision that must have been Jason's stunned face. All in all, he decides, it was a very good day.

_And now to get my boy home and properly beaten,_ Tom thinks, _and fucked until he can't see straight._ Tom figures that's the best thing to come out of all of this--that, and the mark on Orli's hip.

On the drive home, Orlando is silent, picking at the side seam of his jeans and not really hearing the music Tom has going on the CD player. He's glad it's there though and glad that Tom has it so loud; it saves him from having to talk about what happened with Jason.

Once they're home, he kneels the minute the door closes. "Please Sir, beat me hard. I need to forget about today."

"I know." _I do too,_ Tom thinks, but would never say. He drops his keys carelessly on the coffee table and peels out of his jacket. "Come on. Strip and get me the cane, the clothespins, and the granite plug. Don't crawl; walk." Tom's impatient to start, now; he needs this. For both of them. He heads straightaway to the master bedroom.

Moving quickly, Orlando shimmies out of his clothes and then follows Tom into the bedroom and quickly fetches the required items. He smiles a little as he brings them over to Tom; he loves the granite plug. _It's not something that you forget about regardless of whatever else is being done to you._

Along with the rest of the toys, Orlando gets his collar. It's a standing order; Tom likes to see it on him whenever they scene and Orlando loves the feeling of the smooth leather buckled around his throat. He brings all of the requested items into the bedroom and kneels at Tom's feet, offering them up to his lover.

Tom opens the drawer of a nightstand. Inside is lube, mostly unused, but Tom likes to keep it scattered around anyway. He lubes the plug and says coolly, "Get onto the bed--on your knees. Grab the headboard."

Orlando moves to comply, wanting to ask for his collar but knowing better than to disobey a direct order.

"Good boy," Tom breathes. He pulls back with the cane and swats Orli sharply with it, and then quickly sets it aside, shoving the plug home with one sharp thrust. Then he takes up the collar and wraps it around Orli's throat, leaning close, grinding his hips against the sharp welt he just made as he buckles the collar. "I'm going to hurt the fuck out of you," he murmurs against Orli's ear. "And then I'm going to fuck you while you bleed."

The stripe from the cane is sharp and Orli yelps and then moans happily as Tom shoves the plug in. "Please ... oh God Sir, please," he says eagerly in response to Tom's promise.

"In a minute." Tom guides Orlando up straight and spreads the clothespins out on the sofa cushion beside Orli. He's very quick and matter-of-fact about it; one goes onto a nipple, and then another. Then one goes in the crease right at Orlando's groin, and then in the place on the other side mirroring the first. He then creates a line of them moving down the insides of Orli's thighs, alternating sides, working methodically. It's difficult to find enough on Orlando to pinch with them, but Tom always manages.

The clothespins are tight and they pinch and it hurts like hell. Orlando sighs and hums as Tom places them; he loves it when Tom hurts him in this matter of fact way. "Good," he says softly. "Really fucking good Sir."

"Good," Tom breathes. He finishes up with the clothespins and steps back. God, Orlando's so fucking beautiful, all lithe and marked up in varying degrees of darkness and healing. He takes up the cane. "Here it comes, boy," he warns quietly, and brings the cane down hard, right across the other stripe.

Throwing his head back, Orlando yells loudly. "Hurts" he gasps after the wordless cry. "Oh God it hurts!"

"This is what you wanted," Tom reminds him, though really, it's just words. Orlando never needs to be reminded that he literally asked for this. His thankfulness practically radiates from him with every crack of whatever tool Tom uses on him. Tom works slowly, swinging the cane almost aimlessly in between strikes, leaving bright, hot welts behind and then crossing over them. When the blood comes, it's just one more improvement.

By the time the fourth blow lands, Orlando is screaming and babbling out his thanks. He knows that Tom likes to hear him, thinks it's possible that Tom _wants_ to hear him. If he weren't so lost in the incredible pain Tom is dealing out, Orlando would think what he's thought before: that his pain and blood and screams are all he has to offer Tom.

It doesn't take much with a cane. Tom doesn't like Orlando's voice to get raw; then he won't be able to scream tomorrow--or later. He slows down even more, lightening the blows as he plucks clips off of Orlando's skin, one and then another, alternating sides.

Finally, the cane falls with a light thump to the carpet. Tom's so fucking starved now for Orlando that he couldn't wait if Orli begged him to. He pulls out the plug and yanks the clips off Orli's nipples, and then he's buried, gripping Orlando's hips enough to break skin with his nails, groaning.

Shrieking, Orlando bucks back hard against Tom's thrust. "Oh fuck ... oh god yes ... fuck me please Sir ... hard ... please ... need it ... need you...."

Letting out a low, growling noise, Tom starts to fuck Orlando hard. His thrusts are rhythmic and regular, harsh, like the beating. Orli feels scorching against him, and Tom loves his screams. He never thought he'd come to adore the sound of them so well, but he does. He wraps one hand around Orlando's throat firmly, groaning.

The minute Tom's hand is around his throat, Orlando really has to fight the urge to come. He does his best, not only because Tom's not given permission yet but because the longer he waits, the better it is. Tom's a bloody genius at this; he can stretch it out all night sometimes, leaving Orlando gasping and lightheaded and higher than a kite through the whole thing.

Tom can feel the tension in Orlando's body, the way he fights himself because Tom said to--or didn't say not to. Suddenly Tom is stuck wondering what the hell Orlando can mean, _I need you,_ when all he's needed so far is Jason, or pain, whatever's handiest. Tom has to wonder how he can patiently stand by and wait while Jason, who tossed it aside over and over again, still has Orlando's love. It isn't fair.

Gritting his teeth, Tom tightens his hand around Orlando's throat until he feels the give. "Go ahead," he says tightly. "Go on and come."

While a small part of Orlando is surprised that he's been allowed to come this quickly, the rest of him is too busy taking advantage of Tom's generosity. "God!" he breathes out as he comes hard. "Oh God...."

There's a harrowing instant when Tom wonders if he'll manage to come at all; as good as Orlando always feels, that one thought has thrown him off. He drags Orli against him hard, gritting his teeth, letting out a long, frustrated noise. He wants to punish Orlando, but--fuck. That would mean explaining, and he doesn't want to do that. And how the hell do you punish someone for not loving you?

In the end, he forces an image into his head of Orlando, covered in various degrees of healing scene wounds. With tears in his eyes. Yes, tears. That does it; Tom comes with a short, sharp yelp and a biting, skin-piercing grip on Orlando's hips. He stills, breathing hard, barely clinging to enough steadiness to keep from pushing Orlando away.

"Thank you," Orlando gasps when he can speak again. "Thank you, Sir." He reaches for Tom, wanting -- as he so often does -- the closeness he never got with Jason or Ewan.

Pulling back before he can stop himself, Tom hesitates, then finishes withdrawing. He's gritting his teeth constantly now, fighting back the pain and the sense of... of completely having been taken advantage of.

"I need to--" he starts to say, but nothing that comes to mind--_clean up,_ or _go get something to eat,_ or _floss my teeth_ is crucial enough to interrupt; he always wraps himself around Orlando afterward. Always.

"I need to go clean up," Tom says firmly. Nothing will sound good. Everything will sound bad. Fuck it.

"Oh," Orlando says, surprised. "I suppose I should get up too. Are ... are you hungry?" He's hoping he sounds casual, that his voice doesn't betray too much of his confusion.

"No," Tom mutters over his shoulder as he heads off to the loo. He thinks Orlando sounds different, maybe he's wondering--but _God_ damn it all, if he hasn't learned by now that he doesn't have to fucking _hide_ from Tom--

Sighing, Orlando rolls over on his back and tries to think rationally. _Maybe he's just tired; he's had a lot more to do in the last few weeks than I have. Maybe he's nervous about this new role; after all, it's Star Trek; it's a huge franchise._

_Or maybe he's just tired of putting up with you._ It's no surprise that lately the voice of despair sounds a lot like one Jason Isaacs. _Shut up,_ Orli thinks firmly. _I'll smack you again if I have to._ And then the enormity of what he did earlier that day hits him again and he's torn between laughter and tears.

Tom gets into the bathroom and goes through the motions. He pisses, rinses himself off, wipes the blood from his thighs and hips; Orlando will have trouble sitting for several days, and Tom should get his arse out there and start the reparations. But the more he thinks, the more he _thinks_... until he's bursting out of the bathroom and saying, "Goddammit, Orlando, did you ever fucking think maybe I might get tired of waiting around here while I bloody meet your every masochistic need and you're still so fucking hung up on Jason I have to wonder if I even get a second thought when you're not screaming?"

He freezes, breathing too hard, fists clenched, and _fuck_ but it hurts. Jesus fuck, it does.

Orlando stares at Tom in shock. He'd settled for hugging Tom's pillow instead of either laughing or crying, but now he rolls over and stares at Tom, his whole body echoing the confusion and surprise that's going on in his mind.

"I ... uh ... what?" _Oh that's fucking brilliant, Bloom. Really fucking articulate._

"You said you needed me tonight." Tom's voice is suddenly tired and defeated. He sits on the edge of the bed, well away from Orlando, because if Orlando touches him, tries to kiss him, Tom can just hang up whatever anger he had. "I think what you mean is you need what I give you. Let's not confuse things, yeah?" He pauses, then rubs his eyes. "You need Jason. I'm just who happens to be here." He holds his breath, waiting for the burning ache in his chest to go away. It won't.

"Need Jason?" Orlando blinks, not sure he heard Tom correctly. "Yeah," he adds sarcastically trying to lighten the moment up. "I always go around punching people I need in the jaw."

"Whatever," Tom sighs. "You know--whatever. I've said all I can say, Orlando. You know how I feel, and I know you're still--I don't know. You can't tell me it didn't cross your mind to dart back to him the minute he said he was sorry. I mean, fuck. It's like the beginning of the fucking Apocalypse, after all." There's nothing accusatory in Tom's voice, now; he's too afraid he's cost himself everything--and yet he can't stop.

"Of course it crossed my mind to go back," Orlando replies, his voice beginning to rise. "But I didn't now, did I?"

Tom's hands clench involuntarily. "Is that because you didn't want to, Orlando, or is it just because he fucking--wouldn't--_have you_?"

"Oh fuck you!" Orlando yells. "I know you have every reason in the world to hate me, but that's fucking low." He moves out of bed heedless of the pain that has him wincing with every step as he grabs for his jeans.

"Fuck me, yeah," Tom sighs, realizing what he's said, and the defeat in him is so huge there's no room for anything else, not even that flash of anger. "Yeah, that's about right." He rises, too, and waves his hand at Orlando. "Stay. I'll leave." He doesn't know where the fuck he'd go; this is his house, but somehow... Jesus, somehow that's better than Orlando going.

"It's your flat," Orlando says, the anger draining away. "I've been expecting this. Just ... look. Let me grab some clothes and my wallet. Just let me ... fuck. I'll come by next time you're out and get the rest of my stuff. Unless you'd rather be here for that."

"It's--what do you mean you've been expecting this?" Tom asks. "And Christ, no, you're--you're fucking _bleeding,_ Orlando, Jesus." Tom reaches under the bed for the first-aid kit and digs out several gauze pads and some ointment out of habit.

"I expected you'd get tired of me," Orlando says, his shoulders slumping. "Don't worry about the bleeding," he adds a nasty little twist to his voice. "I'm used to leaving someone while I'm hurting. "

"Orlando--" Tom gets up, shaking his head. "Jesus--where the fuck did you hear anything about me getting tired of you? I just--God, I just--" _No._ He can't say it again. He won't. But he can at least say, "I'm not _tired_ of you, alright? I'm not."

"You're tired of waiting for me to be what you want. Even though I'm trying and I made this huge step today...." Orlando's voice trails off defeatedly. "Look let's not drag this out OK? I'll just vanish. I'm good at that. "

Once again, there's nothing Tom can say that will come out even remotely right. Orlando is what he wants, but... there's just no way to explain it now.

"If you want to go, then..." Tom rubs his eyes. "I'm sorry." Fuck. _Fuck_.

"Yeah me too," Orlando mutters, grimacing as he pulls he jeans on. His shirt follows and he's shoving his feet in his trainers. As he heads out of the room he pauses. "You know it was your voice and your marks on me that kept me from offering him another chance."

Resolving to keep the tears from coming until he's back in his flat, Orlando heads down the hall to the front door.

Tom stares at the floor, chest in knots, stomach sick, and he can't understand. He can't. It's just not making sense.

But he wants Orlando not to leave. He's wanting to fix this, somehow, but God only knows what the way might be. Wanting at least to take care of the cuts he's left on Orlando's skin.

"Orlando, wait," he calls, sounding weak, hating the way it comes out, but he stands up anyway, wanting--just wanting.

Cursing himself for the almost instant flash of hope, Orlando turns and stands halfway down the hall. "Why are you doing this? I learned my lesson already you know. I learned to leave when I'm not wanted. I just wish...." In spite of his resolution his voice breaks and he swallows past the huge lump in his throat. "I wish you'd been more honest. I wish you'd never said anything about love. Because I was trying...."

"I can't help it," Tom says softly. "I can't help how I feel. I know you can't help it either. Maybe we just--is it enough for me to swear it'll never come up again?" And now his voice breaks. "Cos I don't want you to go." And he goes to Orlando and drops his head, and then he just sinks to his knees. "Please don't go."

"Tom ... oh God please ... this is wrong. You don't kneel to me. It's...." Orlando lets his voice trail off. 'You _own_ me," he finally says, as if that explains it all. And for Orlando, it does.

"Not if you leave, I don't," Tom answers. He shakes his head. He can't say anymore; more than this would be obsessive and lonely, and he doesn't want to think about that. "Stay, and I'll get up. I'll take care of the marks and I'll keep the rest of it to myself." He doesn't know how he's going to make that be enough, but it has to be.

"It's not right," Orlando says. "You're not happy and ... all I want is for you to be happy." It hits him like a tonne of bricks then. He really does want Tom's happiness more than his own. "You need someone who doesn't have baggage. Someone you don't have to wait for."

"I'm not _not_ happy," Tom corrects, and sighs, and gets up. His kneeling so obviously makes Orlando uncomfortable, and it's not helping anyway... he can't make Orlando stay. "It just--God, it just hit me, is all. I shouldn't have said anything. And--_everyone_ has baggage. No one _doesn't_ have baggage. I want _you_." He looks at Orlando intently, trying not to admit to himself that if this isn't enough to make Orlando stay, then he's played out his hand. He's not quite pathetic enough to tackle Orli to the floor and threaten to hold the game unit hostage.

"And I want you," Orlando says softly. "You're why I didn't grovel and ask him for another chance."

_Then why don't you love me?_ is not going to come out of Tom's mouth. It's not. He holds steady, eyes locked with Orlando's. There are degrees; there's subtlety at play. Tom remembers subtlety; it's what he used to have before he just got used to Orlando belonging to him. Maybe Orlando really does just need a little more time. Maybe. Maybe it's just got to be enough that Tom has this, now.

"I could say it," Orlando says. "And I would ruin what we have. As long as I've been living here I've given you the one thing that means anything to me. The truth. I'll always give you the truth because you deserve it more than anyone I know." He reaches out and strokes Tom's face gently. "I want to love you. I'm closer to loving you."

Tom closes his eyes. "And I don't want you to lie," he says quietly. "Not about anything, but especially not about that." He steps forward and wraps his arms around Orlando's waist, sliding one hand up to a shoulder. He hesitates, then leans in and gives Orli a small, thankful kiss.

Orlando leans into the kiss, still feeling that things are ... well if not wrong, then not as right as they could be, but he doesn't quite know what to do about it. And then suddenly it hits him and he pulls back and grins at Tom. "Come to New Zealand with me," he says.

Tom blinks. "Come with you?" The idea is stunning, but really very perfect, and he catches himself grinning back. "Really?"

"Yeah," Orli replies, all but bouncing on his toes. "You can meet everyone and I can show you around and...." He calms down and looks a little serious. "It was the best time of my life and I want to share it with you."

"Oh..." Tom lets out a little huff of air, a surprised noise. "God. That'd be brilliant." Better than brilliant, really--far better. "Yeah, I really want to do that." He looks at Orlando and adds softly, "Thanks." He means far more than an invitation to New Zealand; he hopes Orlando knows that.

"I'll give you everything I can give, as soon as it's not ... as soon as I'm capable." The word Orlando almost uses is tainted, but that sounds just a little to extravagant and so he smiles instead. "Thank you, Tom."


	16. Chapter 16

"Here's how it's going to go," Tom says quietly, fingering the blindfold. "You keep this on. You say nothing. You follow me and move the way I tell you to. Right?" He tosses the blindfold down onto the bed, where he's laid out a skintight pair of dark brown leather pants, glossy, tall black boots, and a nearly obscenely tight black t-shirt. With that ensemble is Orlando's collar, and next to that is a black leash, coiled around a medium-sized, very bloopy plug. Tom looks at Orli squarely, waiting for the reaction to all of this.

"Yes Sir," Orli says, taking it all in with big eyes. It's been a couple of weeks since the pick ups ended and they're scheduled to fly to Wellington three days from now. In the aftermath of their outbursts, things have been good, neither of them pressuring Orlando for more than he can give.

And now, he looks at Tom and smiles a little. "Can you tell me where we're going?"

"It's a nice place," Tom grins enigmatically, "hosting a party that's right up our alley." He nods at the clothing on the bed. "Come on. Get pretty." And he steps close, grabbing Orli close and kissing him hard, biting his bottom lip sharply. He matter-of-factly spins Orli around, pressing on his shoulder blades, bending him over. He lubes the plug quickly and shoves it home, and then stands Orli up again. It's all very quick and a little harsh; Tom's already impatient to be going.

Orlando gasps a little as the plug goes in. It's not the big granite monster -- the one he's hoping will make it to New Zealand and not get grabbed in a luggage search -- but it's still large enough that he's going to know it's there all evening. As he stands up and reaches for his pants, he can't help wriggling just a little.

Orlando quickly shimmies into the pants, grimacing a little as he does. "Any tighter," he laughs, "And I'd need talc the way you do with wetsuits." The boots next, and aren't they lovely, fitting just tightly enough around Orli's leg to make the pants look even better. The shirt is more like a wrapped on bandage than a real shirt and Orlando is sure he looks like a right strumpet in it.

Finally dressed, he picks up the collar and kneels at Tom's feet. "Please Sir?" he asks offering it up.

Tom catches his breath. Orlando looks like he's been poured into those clothes; it's so fucking gorgeous Tom really wants to just bend him over right now and ruin those pants on the way to fucking him. But no. He can do that later. He takes the collar, smiling, and buckles it up snugly, locking it up into place. He runs his hand over Orli's hair, then, and nods. "You look fantastic," he breathes.

"I feel like a rent boy, Sir," Orlando replies. The plug is making him squirm even more than he usually does and he has no doubt that his motions are making him look all that much more like a slut.

"You look like one," Tom agrees softly. "You look like you need to be taken home, paid, fed, and fucked." He has to reach down and adjust himself in his pants; Orli looks almost too good to be real. Tom can't get over it.

"Alright," he says abruptly, blinking a little and shaking his head, grinning at himself. "Come on, then. I'll blindfold you when we get there."

Since Tom never told him where "there" was, Orlando assumes he's not supposed to know, which is just fine with him. He settles into the car, shifting a bit until he can sit as comfortably as is possible with a big plug stuck up his arse. He's a little nervous about being in front of people but figures that Tom wouldn't take him anywhere that might get either of them in trouble. _I trust him_ he thinks, not for the first time.

Tom's content to let Orli stew a bit. He's got the leash wrapped around his hand and the blindfold in his pocket; the leash is not very long, really, mostly symbolic, but it's enough. It'll help Orlando get through the club blind, and it'll let Tom keep hold of him in a crowd. That's all he wanted, really--well. That, and the fact that Orlando looks fucking stellar leashed up.

It doesn't take long to get there. Tom stops the car and says coolly, "Stay there." He goes to Orli's side and opens the door, leaning in to blindfold Orlando and clip the leash on, and every time Tom thinks Orli can't look any better... God.

Before Orlando gets out of the car, while he's still adjusting to the complete lack of light, he smiles in the direction he last saw Tom. "I trust you," he says, this time aloud. "I really do Sir."

And then he's carefully getting out of the car to stand waiting for Tom to lead the way to wherever they're going. He's already more than a little nervous but it's a good, hot kind of nervousness.

Moving close again, briefly, Tom brushes his cheek against Orli's, a quick little tease. "Thank you for your trust," he murmurs, and then steps back and gives the leash a good tug. "No more talking." His tone has switched to one that's cool and almost hard, and he wraps the slack of the leash around his hand and an arm around Orli's waist, ready to guide him into the club.

When Tom's voice goes cool like that, Orlando knows to listen and behave and so he does, letting Tom guide him into the club. Although he rarely does it anymore he finds himself comparing Tom's coolness which means "I'm serious about what we're doing" to Jason's coldness which meant "I couldn't care less about you if I tried." Once more, Tom weathers the comparison far better than Jason.

Tom flashes his invitation at the door and receives a warm greeting. He knows a few people here; he's no famous player, to be sure, but those people he does know were thrilled to find out he had a boy of his own. He steers Orli to a safe, flat place without a whole lot of people and takes up soda water from a passing tray.

"Here, boy," he murmurs to Orlando, leaning close. He presses the rim of the glass to Orli's lips, and there's something very hot about Orli drinking something as benign as sparkling water with an olive in it while he's blind, leashed, and looking like an owned whore.

It's oddly comforting to be blindfolded here among all these people. Orlando's never been to a club as property before and he's not sure how he's supposed to act. The blindfold and the silence Tom ordered makes it easier to deal with the idea that everyone's looking at him.

Tom makes idle chatter for a while; most of it's pointless, but he likes the way it feels to have Orli here like this. After a little while, a Domme he met when he signed the club waiver murmurs quietly, "My God, he's pretty. Tell me you'll let me borrow him."

Tickled at the idea--but not _that_ tickled--Tom gives a tight little smile and takes up a little more slack on the leash, pulling Orli closer. "Not hardly," he says. "Sorry. One of my main problems in primary school was 'does not share well.'"

Orlando hopes his sigh of relief isn't too obvious. As much as he's flattered as all hell by the idea that some dominatrix -- or at least he assumes that's what the woman with the self-assured voice is -- wants to play with him, he's certain he's not ready for that kind of scene.

"Oh, come on," she presses, almost purring at Tom. "He's adorable." But at his increasingly cold look, she finally relents. "Oh, fine. At least put him up on display, though." And she points.

Tom follows the arc of her arm and sees, suspended from the ceiling high enough that the base would be at shoulder height for the average person, a broad, pretty gold cage. A bird cage, for all intents and purposes. He pulls in a slow breath.

"Do you want to be put on display, boy?" he asks Orli softly. "You want everyone looking at you? It's a cage. It's a big, wide birdcage with a little bench inside you can sit on, like a spoiled pet." He makes a low, appreciative noise in his throat. "Yeah. I want to see you up in there." And he starts pulling Orli in that direction.

Orlando almost balks -- _me in a cage_ \-- but then he thinks about it again. It's got a certain narcissistic appeal to it and so, without protest he follows Tom. _Besides even if I didn't really want this, Tom does and that's the important thing._

Someone calls for the cage to be lowered. Tom refuses help getting Orli into it, though, guiding him in by hand and then steering him around the little bench and onto it so he doesn't fall.

"You're gonna be hauled up to where everyone can see you," Tom tells him. "My boy, on display." That last is mostly Tom trying to convince himself this is real. When he signed up to belong to this little club, he wasn't thinking along these lines--but God, it's perfect. He leans over and brushes his lips over Orlando's, just to let him know he's there, and then Tom kisses him hard, gripping Orli to him and grinding their mouths together.

Orlando can't help clinging a little, his hands closely carefully on Tom's arms as he moans into Tom's mouth. This is a little scary and that strikes him as odd given that he's used to people staring at him and there's not pain or anything involved. But still, he's gone beyond nervous to frightened now, although it's interesting that he's still hard inside the tight leather pants.

Tom lets Orli cling. He likes it, in fact. He really likes that Orli's nervous enough to tighten his grip but he hasn't said "no" or asked Tom not to make him do this. It really does display Orlando's trust, and Tom is proud of him.

He pulls back slowly, stroking Orli's hair and then adjusting the blindfold just a bit. "I'll be right at the door of the cage the whole time," he says, sounding threatening. "I'll be watching you. Don't fuck up, boy."

"Yes Sir," Orlando replies softly. He settled back onto the bench and then hears the door click closed. It sounds loud, even over the dull buzz of the conversation and low music and Orlando takes a deep breath, reaching for the calm that he learned while being Legolas all those months. It's not easy, particularly when the cage begins to slowly rise, rocking a little as it does, but then it stops again and Orli remembers to breathe.

He also remembers that he's on display so, moving carefully, he leans back against the cage, and puts one leg forward, angling his body to show it off as well as he can given the space he has to work in.

Tom does, as promised, stay right there at the entrance of the cage. He chats loudly enough that Orlando can hear him--"Oh, yeah, he's brilliant. You should see him take a caning"--"Thanks, yeah, I'm terribly proud"--"Yes, he's marked. Our initials. It's on his hip." It's not really that a crowd's gathering, but Tom's willing to wager that Orlando's the prettiest thing they've seen in a good while--and they don't even know what they're looking at--and Orlando is _his._

Slowly Orlando relaxes, and as he does he shifts position every once in a while, moving into the poses he thinks Tom would like him to take, doing his best not to look proud but more ... yielding is the best word he can think of. He's Tom's boy and he needs to make Tom look good here.

After a while, Tom decides that's enough. He sends someone to lower the cage, all the while batting away questions about what kind of pain Orlando will take. He's made up his mind what he wants to do, now; it's not rough as what Orli usually likes, but... it'll do. And then, Tom mentally promises, he'll get just as rough and hard as Orli could possibly want.

"Come on," he murmurs, stepping into the cage and getting Orli up. He grabs the leash again and gets Orlando out of there. "I'm ready to make you hurt, now." He says this casually, as though he were ordering scones for breakfast.

Orlando's not sure when the cage comes down as it's rather hard to keep track of time when you're blindfolded in a cage, but he is relived when he feels the cage being lowered. As soon as he feels Tom's hand on the leash he smiles happily and when Tom promises pain, he shivers a little.

"Please Sir," he says, "hurt me?"

"I will," Tom growls softly into Orli's ear, leading him into a small, close room. He closes the door, lets his own eyes adjust, and then tugs the blindfold off; he hasn't bothered turning the lights on because there's just enough to see by. They're alone in a room with nothing but a rubber-covered bed and a box in the corner. "And after I'm done hurting you, I'm gonna fuck you _so_ hard." He unclips the leash and tugs at Orli's t-shirt. "Get naked."

The t-shirt clings a little as Orlando pulls it off impatiently. The boots and pants seem to take forever, but he finally shimmies out of the snug pants and kneels naked on the floor.

"Good boy," Tom whispers. He goes to the box and pulls out a thick, white candle. "I'm sure you know what this is for." He points to the bed. "Get on your back."

Smiling happily, Orlando all but bounds over to the bed, arranging himself on the bed quickly. He's never had wax dripped on him before, at least not sexually, but he's sure it'll be brilliant. Anything Tom does is brilliant.

Tom can't help but be thrilled by Orli's eagerness. He spreads Orli's legs with one hand and reaches between them, tucking his fingers in to roll the base of the plug around a little. "God, you're beautiful," he sighs. Then he has to shake himself out of it enough to get things ready.

He fishes a lighter out of his pocket and lights the candle. "Watch," he orders softly, and holds the candle up over Orlando's breastbone. It's high enough now that it won't really hurt. Not yet, anyway.

"Yes Sir," Orlando says, watching the flame hopefully.

Tipping the candle, Tom lets the first drop go right in the middle of Orli's chest. He doesn't tip the candle back up again, he just lets the drops fall as he turns the candle--pat, pat, pat, very steady and easy. Then he starts to move the candle, first to the right, dripping wax toward, and the onto, Orli's nipple.

"Good?" he asks softly. He knows; he just wants to hear it.

"Nice and warm, Sir," Orlando replies. He sort of wishes it would hurt more but figures that Tom will get to that part whenever he's ready to.

Warm. Tom nods. "Warm" isn't anywhere near what he was going for, so he lowers the candle considerably. He tips it back up again to let the wax pool and blows on the wax already on Orli's skin. Then, without warning, he tips the candle again and spills it over Orli's left nipple. Now it's close. _Now,_ it's hot.

"Oh fuck," Orlando yelps, flinching for a moment. "Sorry Sir," he says as he quickly goes still. This does hurt, a nice dull throbbing pain not like the other ways he's been hurt before. He likes it and likes even more that there's a type of pain that's unique to Tom.

Tom leaves the candle low, now, and as it drips, he traces a path back and forth between Orli's nipples, making wider and wider figure-8's around where he's been, trying to catch as much naked skin as he can. When Orli's chest is coated, he starts working his way down toward Orli's cock.

The feeling is both hot and tight and it's kind of amazing, not like anything Orlando has felt before. And he likes it. A lot. "That's brilliant, Sir," he says as Tom moves toward his cock with the wax. "Hurts like bloody hell." He's glad Tom's never told him to be silent; that's what gags are for. When Orli's not gagged, Tom seems to like hearing how much Orli wants whatever it is that Tom is doing.

"Mmmm." Tom smiles, loving the way Orli looks, slowly coated in wax, dimly lit with the careful, faint track lighting and the candle. "'S gonna hurt quite a bit more than that," he warns softly, bringing the candle lower and dripping it onto the base of Orli's cock.

"Fuck!" Orli yells. "Fuck fuck fuck...." It hurts like hell and it's everything he can manage just keep from twisting his hips to get that pain away from his most sensitive parts. "Jesus .... fucking hurts!"

"You can take it," Tom says softly; they both know it's true. He brings the candle up along Orli's cock, nearly, nearly to the head, dripping all the way, and then he veers to one side and hits the soft, sensitive skin at the inside of one hip.

"For you sir," Orlando gasps, crying out again when Tom drips wax on his hip. "Only for you!"

Tom jerks in a gasp at that, hand tightening on the candle, causing the wax to jitter before it drops. _Fuck_ but he wants Orlando so bad right now... but he makes himself wait. He makes himself spend the same care and patience coating the other hip, and then he goes down one thigh a little way. But the patterns are getting random and hurried, and the candle's burning a little low.

Finally he can't wait anymore. He blows the candle aside and kind of half-carefully tosses it into the box with the others, and then he's stripping as fast as is humanly possible.

"Knees and elbows," he rasps out.

There's something so flattering about it when Tom gets hungry like this. Orlando feels _needed_ and he loves that feeling. And he needs in return, needs Tom with a fierce hunger that still unsettles him a little. As he scrambles to get into position, Orlando gasps out, "please Sir ... need it Sir ... need you...."

"Yeah." Tom wrenches the plug out of Orli and all but throws it aside. "Need you." He grips Orlando's waist, leans over to position himself, and plunges home, letting out a low, lost groan. He wraps an arm under Orli's hips, too, just to keep control of him. He likes that feeling that Orlando can't do anything unless Tom says. He likes it a lot. Especially like this, when he's burying himself sharply into Orli's body.

"Oh God ... fuck me please Sir," Orlando yells out. He's become used to being greedy with Tom, used to demanding. He doesn't always get what he wants, but that's cool. It's just that it's OK for him to want; that Tom won't tell him he's clinging or too needy. "Fucking use me..." he gasps.

Tom slings his arm under Orlando's chest and crosses it over his chest. He grabs that shoulder and holds on, pulling Orli back, and back, and back, _hard,_ fucking him brutally. He drops his head down and bites the back of Orli's shoulder.

Wax is falling off Orli's torso like snow now and he wonders if, when the wax is all gone, his skin and then flesh will follow, jarred off his very bones by this rough hard fucking, by Tom's obvious need.

_ And it's me he needs,_ Orlando realizes suddenly. _Not just any guy, but **me**!_ "Yours," he gasps loudly in time with Tom's pace. "Yours ... yours ... yours ...."

"Mine. Mine." Tom grits his teeth, grinding out a harsh noise. He reaches down to dig at the crease of Orli's hip, then the top of his thigh, pulling away what little wax is left roughly. After another few thrusts, he's close--too close--and he wants Orlando with him. He starts peeling the wax from Orlando's cock with his fingernails. "Come," he groans.

'Yes!" Orlando shouts. 'Yours!" And then he's coming hard, shoving his hips back to meet Tom's thrusts even as the pleasure washes over him like a wave of fire.

Lately, it isn't really Orlando's movement or his hunger that sends Tom over--it's the things he says when he's coming. Tom drinks the words in like water just before he comes himself, groaning loudly behind his teeth and snapping his hips against Orli's ass until it almost hurts to move anymore.

"Fuck," he gasps, and kisses Orli's shoulder absently, then nuzzles it.

"Mmm .. yeah ... fuck..." Orlando replies, his voice a little dazed. "Was brilliant Sir."

"Mmm." Tom lets himself settle a moment, then pulls out reluctantly. "God but that's good," he sighs, flopping down next to Orlando and then tugging on Orli's arm to get him close. "Good boy."

The words of praise mean so much to Orlando; he wonders if Tom even knows how much he treasures each "good boy." "Want to be good for you Sir," he mumbles. A thought hits him, remembering things he's read. "This boy wants to be good for his Owner."

Tom looks at Orli, startled but pleased. He strokes Orli's face, the side of his neck, his jaw, and grins. "Been studying all this?" he asks softly.

"A little, Sir," Orlando replies. "Before. And then a lot more lately."

_That_ really makes Tom happy. He nods and tightens his arms around Orlando. "Good," he says simply. "I like that."

"Would ... Sir like this boy to learn formal voice better?" Because Orlando knows that there are all kinds of nuances he's probably missing here.

Tom considers it. "Yes," he says after a moment. "We won't use it all the time. I'll let you know when I want to hear you talk like that." He smiles again, then shakes his head, dazed. "You really are a good boy, Orlando."

"Your good boy," Orlando says. "Only _yours_. No on else's." The name he won't speak hangs between them, and he feels like he's pushing past it in some way, like a thick barrier that suddenly turns out to be nothing but cobwebs. He'll still have traces of Jason, but the man himself is no longer between himself and Tom. "Never anyone else's."

And he means it he realizes. If Tom kicks him out tomorrow, he won't look for this ever again. If Tom lets him go, he'll heal -- he knows that now -- but he won't go seeking pain from anyone.

Nuzzling Orli's cheek, Tom smiles. He can feel it in his chest, the way Orlando's just made himself at home. He strokes Orli's hair and whispers, "Thank you." He wants to say so much more about how happy Orlando makes him, and how he keeps looking for new ways to own him, as though the permanent mark and all the temporary marks and a collar and leash aren't enough. But those thoughts just sort of drift around in Tom's head lazily, content to stay there. _Never anyone else's._ Tom decides he agrees with that, wholeheartedly.

* * * *

It's been a few days since they went to the club and now all the paperwork and important stuff that goes a long with international travel has been handled. They fly out of Heathrow tomorrow afternoon and now, as the day's light fades behind the curtain, Orlando is stuffing the last of his clothes in a duffel bag.

"Son of a fucking bitch," he mutters. "Just one more lousy fucking pair of jeans...."

"What's the matter?" Tom asks, sitting heavily on his suitcase and snapping it shut. "Out of room, or out of laundry?" He grins and stands up, then hauls up his case, and then starts canvassing the room for stuff he forgot. He finds a stray sock and shoves it impatiently into a pocket.

"Out of room," grumbles Orli. He pulls the offending jeans out and glares at them. "Fuckers."

Tom looks doubtfully at the duffel bag, then takes the jeans. He flattens them out on the bed, folds them in half, rolls them up into a tube and then hesitates. "Well I think I might fit them into mine, but--damn, I'm afraid to open it."

It's all so domestic that Orlando has to laugh. "Look at us," he says when he can speak again. "We're all married and shite." His tone of voice makes it clear that he's not complaining.

Laughing quietly and shaking his head, Tom holds up a hand. "Not before I get a prenup concerning the sex toys," he deadpans, and then adds, "and some clause thrown in about doing the dishes." He looks at the jeans in his hand and then sighs. Might as well bite the bullet; he snaps his suitcase latches again and grins as the lid pops open under the pressure from inside. He starts trying to shimmy the jeans in among all the other clothes.

"How 'bout I just promise to love you forever?" The words just come out, not exactly the way Orlando ever expected them to, but he can't deny the feeling -- as real and solid as the earth.

Tom's kneeling on the suitcase again, trying to jam it closed before it gets pissed off and gives him a black eye. He pulls in a breath to say something--what, he has no idea in the aftermath, and never will--and then registers what Orlando said. He looks at Orlando, stunned, and then looks away.

The next thing he knows, a huge grin is plastered over his face. "Alright, then," he says simply, and snaps the suitcase closed. "And you can have the Playstation."

_-end-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily and pornily ever after. My thanks to the readers who encouraged us with comments and feedback in chat, to Darkrose (Jason) and Kyuuketsukirui (Ewan) for their contributions, to Kyuuketsukirui again for all his wonderful work on the [Chiaroscuro archive](http://www.megchan.com/misc/chiaroscuro/) and for the gorgeous [cover art](http://www.megchan.com/misc/chiaroscuro/graphics/repairs-cover.jpg). And finally many, many thanks, hugs, kisses and so on to my lovely and talented co-writer Padawanhilary who said, at just the right time, "I'd love to work on an h/c story starting with the comfort."


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